OBT Forum

DUH!   

I need an editor.   

MA

I need one too and a typist that is a fast hand!

I have a fertile mind (one buddy says it shows i am full of it) and I have 9 manuscripts hand written to put on the Computer.

That is one to take the bull.....

Interesting..

I have tried hard to do that my self, but my handwriting, (that got me an A++ for penmanship), is to fancy for 99% of the people I know to read!   Who say neat stylish handwriting is the bohm?

September 2, 2768
South Cape Training Ground
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

“Captain Truscott?”

Absalom turned towards the sound of Colonel Moreau’s voice and snapped to attention—but remembering the admonitions of the former second-in-command of the Regiment, he did not salute.  “Sir.”

Ethan grinned, when he saw the Captain—still limping, but dressed in the full body cooling sock of an SLDF MechWarrior.  “Captain, just what the devil are you doing here?”

“Sir, Sergeant-Major Howe told me that if I wanted to join in this field training exercise, I had best get out here ASAP.”

“Really?  Were your non-existent skills at typing, filing, and your lack of familiarity with the intricacies of SLDF paperwork finally the reason that the RSM kicked your butt out of Regimental HQ?”

“Sir, I don’t know, sir.  But the Sergeant-Major told me to grab my kit and get out here—and that neither he nor Sergeant McCormick wanted to see me posted there again.”

The officer commanding nodded.  “And the leg?  You are still limping, Captain Truscott; have the doctors cleared you for field service?”

“I haven’t asked, Sir.  And I shouldn’t have many problems if you put me back in ‘Mechs cockpit, sir, rather than with the Nighthawks.”

“Well, there is just one small problem with that Captain,” Ethan replied.  “We don’t have a ‘Mech assigned to you at the moment—some problem with the paperwork that was filed informing SLDF command that we had just thirty-nine active duty MechWarriors instead of forty.”

“Well, technically, Sir, I haven’t really been active duty . . .”

“And the top brass do not need to know that, Captain.  You know how famished the entire Defense Force is for BattleMechs right now—so since we had only thirty-nine active duty MechWarriors in the Regiment, they stopped your Griffin II and sent it as a replacement to the 501st Pathfinders.”

Ethan Moreau shook his head as he walked up to the young man and placed his arm around his shoulder.  “You see son, the brass are a lot like a seven-year old child; they don’t need to know everything that goes on, even if they demand it.  They don’t understand what happens in the field, and how we conduct ourselves, so we just tell them what they really, really need to know.  And not one bit of information more.  Sometimes, I think that whenever someone gets a star or two and then gets stuck behind a desk, they get captured by the bureaucrats that really run the SLDF.  Everything boils down to what is written in the regs and no one uses their common fracking sense.”

Absalom’s face fell in disappointment, but then he straightened up.  “In that case, Sir, permission to report to the observation bunker—I know I’m not assigned to the First Lord’s detail, but an extra eye couldn’t hurt.”

“Oh, no, Captain.  I think I’ve got something better for you—follow me.”

*****************************************************

“What the hell is that?  Sir?” blurted out Absalom as the two officers entered a ‘Mech hanger on the edge of the three hundred square mile reservation.

“That, my young padawan, is a Royal Grasshopper, the Grasshopper II.  But, you’ve never even seen a GHR-5H Grasshopper, have you?  It was a brand new design that will fill a few badly needed niches in the ranks—but Amaris captured most of the factories that makes them.  We’re retooling a few outside the Hegemony to produce the GHR-5H for the SLDF, but the Army got its hands on about a hundred of the basic model—twenty of the Royal version—just before the Coup went down.  This puppy is my ride, Captain Truscott, and you don’t want to know how many strings I pulled to get here in the Regiment.  She masses 70 tons, moves as fast and jumps as far as your Griffin, carries as much armor as a Thunderbolt, and is armed with two Snub-nosed PPCs, three medium lasers, and a five-tube LRM rack with a total loadout of 120 missiles.  Please, she has enough heat sinks to shoot everything and jump 150 meters without cooking me alive.”

“I think I’m in love,” Absalom whispered.

Ethan grinned.  “Well, then, Captain.  Since I have to attend the First Lord in the observation bunker today, why don’t you take her out on the FTX—keys are in the ignition and you had best not even scratch the paint job.  Comprende?”

“Sir, yes, Sir!” Absalom said with broad grin as he snapped to attention.

“Carry on, then.”

General and Margrave Jennifer Steiner watched the FTX unfold from the cockpit of her ZEU-6Sc Zeus assault-class BattleMech.  Not only was the BattleMech appropriate to her rank and station, she had chosen it because of the excellent cockpit that gave her a wonderful view of everything around her—and because of the expansive computer support that allowed her to coordinate the actions of her 4th Royal Guards as they maneuvered against the Star League’s 10th Brigade.  Frowning at the displays, she reached down to her command console and flipped one of the controllers.

“Colonel Bennington, your 8th Lyran Guards are getting their flank rolled—send your reserves to counter, and watch out for their tanks, they are very deadly machines.”

Static crackled across the frequency, and then broke as a voice emerged from the speakers.  “But ma’am, they are just using light and medium ‘Mechs against us—no match for my heavies.  In fact, they are beginning to run away, request permission to pursue.”

“Negative, Colonel, they are not running, they are trying to draw you after them!  Pull your line back to link with the 4th Royals immediately.”

But her order came too late, and as the SLDF flankers broke off, the scream of artillery shells inbound began to sound.  Thirty-six explosions of white smoke detonated simultaneously in the center of the 8th Lyran.  Had it been the air-burst HE shells used in a normal engagement, half of Bennington’s BattleMechs would have been rocked by the concussion and shell fragments—badly damaged or destroyed by the blast.  And sure enough, the SLDF lights and mediums reversed course and charged right back in, now supported by a battalion of heavy tanks that stuck their turrets above the rim of a ridge-line and began to rake the 8th Lyran.

Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky, Lord Kerensky, Jennifer thought.  But I have an answer for that as well.  “Rainbow Six, execute Cutthroat.”

Two clicks were her only answer over the speakers, but then eighteen Chippewa heavy fighters tore over the ridge, each dropping ten tons of infernos, high-explosive, and cluster bombs—all simulated, of course.  But that pass tore out the heart of the SLDF armored battalion, and the heavy fire savaging the 8th Lyran petered out.  On her display, six Chippewas began to flash red, as the simulator master computer ruled that Star League anti-air units had clawed them out of the sky, but the remainder completed their turns and made one final pass against the heavy SLDF elements defending against her 4th Royals.  Two dozen large lasers and an equal number of mediums flashed beams of coherent light as the fighters strafed the BattleMechs below.

Now is the time, Jennifer thought.  “All Lyran units, advance now!  GO, GO, GO!”

The surviving units of three Lyran Regiments (the mostly intact 4th Royals, the now badly under strength 8th Guards, and the 13th Arcturan Guards ) charged the ridge that marked the 10th Brigades main line of resistance—but then her lead ‘Mechs began to come to a halt as explosions of smoke and fire erupted from the ground around them.  Damn!  They mined the bloody ridge, she thought.  The pre-op briefing had indicated that this was a hasty defense, and so she had unconsciously ruled out pre-positioned minefields, but here they were.

Suddenly, her threat monitor turned crimson as yet another force of SLDF BattleMechs appeared—a battalions worth, emerging from the lake behind her!  And these ‘Mechs all bore the crossed six-shooters worn by gunslingers.  Great, just great, she thought.  And now we get the Black Watch at our backs.

Spinning her Zeus around, Jennifer raised her left arm LRM launcher and triggered a flight of missiles at the Phoenix Hawk leading a pair of Falcons and a Clint.  And nothing happened.

The weapon didn’t fire, but suddenly her console flickered, and her systems began to go haywire.

“What the  . . .” she started to say, but then she stopped cold as the display showed all of her heat sinks going off-line—even the ones internal to the engine core.  And the reactor jumped to 140%, sending temperatures soaring within the chassis.  Jennifer hit the emergency shutdown not once, not twice, but three times, but the engine remained live and locked on its emergency maximum power load.

“Central, Margrave Steiner—terminate exercise immediately.  I am declaring an emergency, my reactor is locked on overload and will not shut down.  Overrides have failed, heat sinks are off-line—core explosion in one eighteen from mark:  MARK!”

For a second only static came over the speakers, and then a robust baritone voice cut in.  “All units, this is the First Lord—terminate exercise and clear the area.  Margrave Steiner abandon via ejection; I’ve got a skimmer coming in for a fast pickup.”

“Roger, First Lord.  Eject, eject, EJECT!” she yelled as pulled the emergency cables, and nothing happened.  “Damn it,” she yelled into the microphone.  “Ejector malfunction!  I’m abandoning by foot,” she screamed as she through the control that would blow the armored canopy—but that too failed.  She hit the manual release and pushed—but the canopy did not budge.  “Frak me,” she whispered.

*****************************************************

“Frak me,” she whispered over the speakers of the observation bunker.  “Canopy will not release.  I repeat, it will not release even after disengaging the manual interlocks.”

Stephen stared at Ethan Moreau with horror dawning on his face.  “She can’t get out?”

“No, Sir.  And her ‘Mech has no hands—so she can’t even pull the canopy off.”  The Black Watch CO picked up a hand transmitter.  “Rescue Three, abort.  I say again, abort.”

“EIGHTY-THREE SECONDS TO CORE DETONATION, MARK,” the bunker control computer announced.

“My god,” whispered Stephen.  “How could so many systems fail—at once?”

“They can’t my Lord,” Ethan answered.  “Both the canopy controls and the ejection system are separate from the remainder of the internal controls—neither is networked with any other system.  Short of battle damage, this shouldn’t be happening.”

Or sabotage, both men thought, nodding at each other in silent acknowledgement.

“Sir!” one of the sensor techs running the FTX computers shouted.  “It’s Black Watch Beta Six!”

Stephen and Ethan turned backed to the monitors and saw the Grasshopper piloted by Absalom Truscott fly over the ridge and the minefield, hitting the ground beyond it running full-bore towards the Zeus, which was now emitting steam and smoke from every gap in the armored chassis.

“SIXTY-TWO SECONDS TO CORE DETONATION, MARK,” the bunker control computer announced.

“What the hell is he doing!” Ethan barked.

Stephen, on the other hand smiled.  “Exactly what you or I would do, Ethan.  He is going to save that woman, or die trying.”

*****************************************************

The joints and myomers of the borrowed Grasshopper groaned with the stress as Absalom kept the engine power at 130% of rated maximum—sending him careening over the ground at nearly one hundred kilometers per hour.  As he approached the distressed and dying Zeus, he skidded to a halt and barked out a command of his own.

“General, cover your face!”

*****************************************************

Within the cockpit of the Zeus, Jennifer Steiner watched the Grasshopper and its crazy pilot charge across the open field, sliding to a half beside her.  She heard, the radio transmission and felt one of the massive hand actuators of Grasshopper grab her Zeus’s shoulder, and the second took hold of her canopy.

“Oh shit,” she said as she raised both arms to cover her head, narrowly avoid the shower of shattered armored glass as the canopy panes were crushed, and then she heard a terrific screech as the canopy was ripped free and thrown a hundred meters.  The gull-wing canopy on the left side of the Grasshopper’s head opened, and the BattleMech straightened its arm, forming a bridge between her now open cockpit and the Grasshopper’s.

Jennifer released her restraints and scrambled out of the cockpit, crawling over shattered armor-glass and twisted, torn metal.  Bleeding from a dozen cuts on her bare legs and torso, she heard the control centers announcement behind her.  “FORTY-ONE SECONDS TO CORE DETONATION, MARK.”

But then she stopped, and turned around, and bent down into the cockpit and began to tug at a specific computer memory module.

*****************************************************

“FORTY-ONE SECONDS TO CORE DETONATION, MARK.” The radio announced as Absalom saw General Steiner exit the BattleMech and begin to make her way across his Grasshopper’s outstretched arm, but then she turned around and bend down into her cockpit, leaving him with a lovely view of her rear end.

“What the hell?” he asked himself, and triggered the external PA.  “General Steiner, get your pretty ass in motion and get over here NOW!  Just leave whatever you looking for, we’ve gotta go now!”

Finally, she emerged once again, holding in one hand a computer memory module from the central processing core.  She raced across the arm and dove into the cockpit, and Absalom grabbed hold of her as he fired the BattleMech’s jump-jets and rotated away from the Zeus.  He hit the ground running and pushed his own engine to the firewall.

“Where is your jump-seat?” the General asked from his lap as the gull-wing canopy cycled closed.

“There isn’t one in this model.”

“What?  You mean I’ve got to ride in your lap, Captain?”

“That is exactly what I am saying, General, now if you would kindly get your cooling vest out of my eyes, I need to see where I am going!”

“TWENTY SECONDS TO CORE DETONATION, MARK.”

“If we get behind the ridge, we should be fine, General.  Just a little bit more now,” Absalom said as he jumped the Grasshopper above the minefield of smoke bombs—but the ammunition bin aboard Zeus detonated from the soaring temperatures; the that explosion ruptured the over-stressed engine core.  The detonation caught the Grasshopper in mid-flight, hurling it up and over the ridge, to come down in a tumbled heap beyond.

*****************************************************

Flashing red lights lit the control panels of the Grasshopper as Absalom shook his head, trying to clear his head from the massive concussion wave that had picked up his ‘Mech and carried it two hundred meters beyond what its jump jets were rated for.  His restraining straps were digging into his shoulders and he realized the ‘Mech was laying face up on its back—and its rear armor was missing.  Colonel Moreau is going to kill me, he thought, as he saw critical damage lights flashing on both hips—and it looked like the gyro was dead as well.  But at least he had jettisoned the LRMs before he began his wild ride, and that had avoided a torso-gutting ammunition explosion.

He winched as felt a sharp pain in his right side; not his ribs—again!  General Steiner was lying flat against him, atop of him.  He shook her shoulder.  “Wake up, General, we’re still alive after all.”

Jennifer stirred, shaking her head, and she turned to look Absalom directly in his eyes, their noses almost touching.  “What, Hauptmann . . . it seems that I do not even know the name of my savior?”

“Truscott, ma’am.  Absalom Truscott, Royal Black Watch.”

“Well then, Hauptmann Truscott, do not you enjoy my pretty ass being in your lap?”

Absalom flushed, and sweat began to bead on his face.  “Well, it was just a saying, Your Grace, I mean that . . .”

“That you do not think my ass is pretty, Hauptman?” she asked in tone of voice that could freeze water.  Her warm blue eyes turned flinty and resemble chipped pieces of ancient sea ice.

The young MechWarrior flinched, and he shook his head.  “I think I will just say that I saved your life, Your Grace, and then shut up before I dig myself a deeper grave.”  He flushed skin faded, becoming a pale white as he spoke.

Jennifer chuckled as she pushed the sweat beads aside with a single finger.  “I see you a wise man, Hauptmann, as well as brave, not to mention incredibly foolhardy.”  She leaned down and kissed him deeply, and then pulled back, a coquettish smile on her face.  “I find that combination of qualities in a man to be incredibly sexy, Hauptmann Absalom Truscott—do you agree?”

But Truscott gave no answer, and his eyes were closed, the lids faintly fluttering.

“Absalom?  Hauptmann?”  Jennifer asked in growing alarm, and then she saw the blood pooling on the cockpit surface beneath the two of them, blood coming from the puncture wound were a spalling piece of the cockpit armor plate had sliced through Truscott’s ejection seat and into his back.

Glancing around, she spotted the emergency field radio still in its clip against the cockpit’s bulkhead, and pulled it loose.  Switching it on, she keyed the microphone.  “We are both alive, but Hauptman Truscott is injured—get the medics rolling!” she ordered.