When the Lyran Commonwealth formed its alliance with the Federated Suns, just about everybody thought that there would be an end to the war which had raged for centuries. Everybody was wrong. Hanse Davion ordered an all-out assault on the Capellan Confederation, and the Lyran Commonwealth attacked House Kurita. Three months later the Free Worlds League, feeling that House Steiner had been sufficiently weakened, decided to attack. Marik troops crossed into Lyran space along the border, making strong pushes at various points in their lines. One of those strong points came at Wyatt. We'd been skirmishing back and forth across the border with Marik house troops for a couple of months, but their attack in strength caught us with our pressure suits down. Their JumpShips phased in at a system-rim, non-standard Jump Point. Their assault craft were halfway planetside before we even got off the ground. My squadron scrambled to intercept, of course, but it was too little too late. Their DropShips and fighters came in along the same approach path used by Major Pawaloski's ill-fated raiding force of a year and a half ago. This time, they had enough strength to force their way through and establish a planethead. It fell to us to knock them loose. There was heavy fighting going on in the veldt country, about 300 kilometers south of our airbase at Turner City. My flight was designated as fighter support for our ground forces in that sector. In an attempt to slow the Marik advance, we treated their supply areas to a couple of fighter sweeps. I divided my flight up into air-lances and had the ground crews arm the fighters with high-explosive and inferno bombs. The way we ran those attacks was right out of the textbooks. Alpha Lance went in low, from the west. They strafed the target. Then they laid in a couple of HE bombs. Bravo Lance went in hard on their heels, only from the south, while Charlie Lance (made up of Capt Lucas Kurtz and myself) struck last, from high altitude. We made our run from the west, dive-bombing with 100-kilo infernos, and then made our strafing run. The lances not making their run provided a cover patrol for the attacking lance. The sweeps went off beautifully. The new Chippewa fighters, which replaced our older, Davion-built Corsairs, carried a heavier weapon load. With the added firepower, we really tore the hell out of the Marik ground targets. In one pass, Kurtz took down a Blackjack and two Vedettes, then turned around and shot up a Valkyrie. Not a record by any means, but still impressive. All told, our sweeps accounted for four 'Mechs and a dozen assorted vehicles. However, that still didn't slow down the Marik advance. I went to regimental command for permission to stage a series of sweeps against their major landing zones. If we were to run a couple of heavy air-strikes on their DropShips and planetside fighter ships, we might make it too costly for the Mariks to stay. Regimental's reply was more devastating than a hit from a particle cannon. "I'm sorry, Major Shaneyfelt, but Brigadier Left has just received word from Sector Command on Skye; all Commonwealth troops have been ordered to withdraw from Wyatt," Col Buckholtz told me. "We have been ordered to begin evacuation procedures immediately, and to offer only token resistance." "What?" The clatter of my chair overturning as I shot to my feet was lost in my enraged shout. I could feel my face turning as red as my hair. "Are they daft? Are you daft? We can beat those damanta gallda bligeard! Why should we withdraw?" "Because those are the orders, Major!" Col Buckholtz was on his feet now, too. "I don't give a hiccup in a windstorm about your opinion. We've been ordered off Wyatt, and by God, you're going to obey those orders!" Buckholtz was livid. I'd never seen the old man lose his temper before, but there he was, shouting and thumping on his desk. The orders to withdraw from the planet we'd fought so hard to defend hit him just as hard as they did me. "I'm sorry, Irish, it's just..." His voice trailed off as he sat down, shaking his head. "I know, sir. It's a bad situation, with no way out." Terrible The situation was, in fact, terrible. Try as we might, we couldn't keep the news of our impending withdrawal asecret. When the civilian workers on the base found out, they told their families, and soon half the population of Turner City was outside our gates clamoring to be taken off planet when we left. I guess they were afraid of what would happen to their homes and families when the invading Marik troops took possession of Wyatt. Old stories of conquering armies looting, burning, and pillaging die hard, especially among civilians. We knew better, of course. The Free Worlds League is bound by the Ares Conventions just as much as the Lyran Commonwealth. Most civilians know this, but there are still those who view the professional soldier as a caged animal who kills for the sheer pleasure of the thing. There are a few soldiers who are like that. They generally don't live too long. They build up a reputation for committing atrocities. A bounty hunter, or someone in their own command, greases them. In the face of an invading army, all logic and reason goes right out the window. People panic, and no amount of talk about the rules of warfare will change anyone's mind. Technical crews worked frantically dismantling and loading the equipment we could take with us. Engineers planted explosives designed to destroy what had to be left behind. Cooks, clerks, and programmers were pressed into service as manual laborers, made to carry boxes, crates and barrels aboard the DropShips and shuttles. One loading bay was cluttered with barrels of paint and air compressors. Techs spray painted the ancient symbol of a red cross on a commandeered civilian Mule class DropShip. I felt a little better knowing that our hospital staff and the wounded would escape unmolested in that ship. Such personnel as were not actively engaged in loading operations were drafted as sentries to guard the base perimeter and the DropShips. At least a dozen indigs were caught trying to stow away aboard our shuttles. The thought of a person so desperate to escape an invading army that he would hide in a dark zero-G cargo hold for who knows how long made me wonder if we shouldn't try to take them along. My squadron flew strike after strike against the Mariks, desperately trying to slow their inexorable advance. On paper, the terms "withdrawal with token resistance" sound easy, almost pleasant. In reality, it's a nightmare. The physical trials of such an operation are bad enough, but the mental and emotional stresses are horrifying. Feelings of helplessness, frustration, and betrayal weighed heavily on everyone. There were a couple of fights, one ending when two infantrymen actually opened fire on each other. Even normally good-natured Dieter Jurgens threw a wrench at me when I asked him how soon my fighter would be re-armed. Finally, everything was ready. Col Buckholtz called the Aerospace Forces together for one last briefing. "This is how it is, people," he said, with no preamble. "We have a few dozen DropShips and shuttles to get off planet and outsystem. If everything goes according to plan, five Starlord class JumpShips will arrive at the nadir Jump Point at 03:30 hours the day after tomorrow. Hopefully, the Mariks won't try to stop our withdrawal. I guess we'll find out for sure tomorrow. We may have to fight all the way to the Jump Point. You've all been part of a fast-pass invasion before. What we've got here is the same thing, only in reverse. Your individual unit assignments have been given to your flight leaders. The first ships are scheduled to boost in two hours. That's about it. Dismissed." My flight had been assigned to provide "high cover" for the escaping ships. When the enemy fighters attacked, as they almost certainly would, our job would be to engage the hostiles and keep them off the DropShips. The general opinion was that the Mariks would try to stop us before we left the operational range of their fighters, but would let us go once we outdistanced them. "You realize that we're going to be at the broken end of a bottle on this one," Lucas Kurtz said, as we walked across the pavement to the ready room. "I know, Luke, but I just can't see any other way out: can you?" "No, I can't, Irish. I just hope your luck holds out." The stresses of the past few days were plain on his Aryan features. "So do I, Luke, so do I." Goodbye Two hours is not long enough to say goodby to a world which has been your home for the past two years. Even as we cleaned out the barracks and ready room, memories came filtering back into my mind. Like the time Marla Entz bet a mercenary mechwarrior that she could down half a liter of Caldonian whiskey at one go. I can still see her, as she put down the half-liter mug which she'd just drained. With a half-fuddled, half-triumphant look in her blue eyes, she turned to the merc and said, "Pay up." The mechwarrior counted out 150 Hb, shaking his head in disbelief. "I just can't understand how anyone can pull off a trick like that." Entz looked him square in the eye and said, "Willpower." That was the last intelligible, non-hostile word she spoke for the next two days. As Marla turned to face the bar again, she passed out. Luke and I had to carry her back to her quarters. Marla woke up the following afternoon with a hangover that would have killed a raxx. Bob Douglass, her wingman, didn't help matters any when he took a tray of food in to her on the excuse that she'd feel better if she ate something. Not two minutes afterwards, we heard a scream of pure rage, tinged with more than a little sickness, followed by a metallic bang. Bob appeared a few seconds later holding his head, covered with creamed chipped beef and toast. A dark purple stain on the carpet in the pilots' quarters made me think of the time Jeff Velasquez traded a case of Tharkadian caviar stolen from the planetary governor's home to the captain of a free trader for three cases of Altair wine. The little Venarian came scuttling into the barracks, clutching a bulky aluminum case. Without saying a word, but grinning wildly, he ran back outside, returning with another grey metal case. A final trip yielded yet a third identical container. "Velasquez, what the devil are you doing?" Jack Cleary asked, peering closely at one of the boxes. Then, sitting back in surprise, "Is that label right?" "Yep. Altair wine. Three full cases of it." Jeff replied. I traded a case of black-label Tharkadian caviar to a merchanter captain for it." "Jeff," I asked, dreading the answer, "where did you get a case of Tharkad Black Label?" "I traded an indig a Ranger's patch, a pair of issue boots, and a Kurita officer's sword for it." Cleary looked at me. "You want to ask him or should I?" "Jeff, where did you get a Kurita officer's sword?" Velasquez grinned even more wildly at my question. "I made it." His masterpiece of scrounging was short-lived. He had to use the wine to bribe the MPs who came to arrest him for stealing the caviar. Over the one bottle he had left, Velasquez mourned his loss, saying that it wouldn't have been so bad if he had stolen the caviar. He said he'd never trust another indig. Before the wine he'd spilled was completely dry, he'd made some kind of deal with a local involving a case of contraband cigars and a box of IC engine spares. Even these good memories weren't free of sadness. Shortly after his wine deal, Jeff Velasquez was shot down by bandits raiding for spare parts. Marla Entz was transferred when the 10th was rotated out, while I stayed behind to take command of one of the newly arrived Aerospace Unit. For long minutes, I sat on a desk in the ready room, fingering the small piece of twisted metal hanging on a chain around my neck. Images of a red-painted eagle and memories of overwhelming fear were so clear, after a full year, that these events might have occurred only yesterday. So many of us had lived, and fought, and died on Wyatt. Now we were to abandon it. Such a waste. Report "Attention, all personnel. Report to departure stations. Ground crews to launch stations." The PA shattered my dream-like reverie. "We have 15 minutes to departure." I slid off the table with a sigh, picked up my flight helmet, and left the ready room for the last time. At the catapult station, DieterJurgens was going over my Chippewa, making a last preflight check. The big white and red flying wing gleamed dully in the afternoon sun. I paused for a moment, halfway up the boarding ladder, and patted the image of a striking hawk painted on the nose above the words "The Falconer." "All set, DJ?" I asked, as I swung my legs over the edge of the cockpit. "All set, sir," he answered as he locked down the access panel beneath which he had been working. "Your fuel tanks are full, and you couldn't fit another missile into the bins if you had to." "OK, then, wind her up." "Yes, sir," DJ slid down the boarding ladder and began hooking up the converters. Other ground crewmen scrambled around hooking up the catapult and plucking the last system-check ribbons off of my fighter. The piercing whistle of turbines, followed by the boom of the igniters, filled my cockpit, only to give way to the steady whine of the big PlasmaStar 270 engine. Looking left and right, I got, and returned, thumbs-up signals from my ground crew. Facing front again, I watched the catapult officer as he signaled me to 'rev-up'. Obeying his nonverbal command, I slowly opened my throttle, feeding more fuel to my Chippewa's powerful engine, standing hard on the brakes all the while. At last, the cat-officer ceased the circular 'rev-up' signal, snapped a quick traditional salute, and brought his right arm over and down, ordering launch. A gigantic unseen hand slammed me backwards in my seat, while another bigger butjust as invisible hand grabbed my ship and flung it down the launch-ramp. Thirty meters from the end of the runway, I heard and felt the snap of the catapult sheaf failing away. Pulling back on the central yoke, I lifted my 90-ton ship into the air. Over a kilometer away, I could see the first DropShips boosting, their egg-shaped hulls balanced atop billowing towers of plasma vapor and superheated steam. In the distance, I saw black specks moving across the plains towards the spaceport. Occasionally, flashes of light dotted one of those black pinpoints. I knew that those small dark shapes were the advancing Marikunits and our own delaying force. Pride and sorrow rose in me for those brave men and women who volunteered to spend their livesto gain more time for the escaping ships. At 15,000 meters, my squadron-mates and I dropped into formation with the transports. The vast ovoid bulk of a 9,700- ton Overlord dwarfed my fighter. DropShips always over-awed me with their sheer size and incredible amount of firepower. Ahead of me were more DropShips, fighters, and shuttles; some were visible only on my long-range scanners. All were boosting for the rendezvous point. Radio traffic flooded my headset. A flight of Seydlitz light fighters had engaged a flight of Marik F-10 Cheetahs. The light fighters were being hard pressed. One of the Fury class DropShips carrying troops and support personnel had been caught on the ground and captured before it could boost. Shouts of rage, pleas for help, and cries of pain all filtered through my helmet speakers. Just as we cleared the atmosphere a squadron of Marik fighters swung alongside our escaping ships. Wyatt's sun gleamed on their wings as they slowed to match our speed. "To the commander of the fleeing Lyran forces," camethe call over a wide-band transmission. "Turn your ships about and return to the spaceport. If you comply immediately, you will be treated as prisoners of war undertheAres Convention. If you refuse, we will destroy you all." Seconds ticked by as we silently held our course. Would Brigadier Leff give in or not? The question was answered with brutal eloquence when the Overlord carrying the brigadier sent a full broadside of long-range missiles burning across the void into the Free Worlds line. "Here they come!" somebody yelled. Suddenly, my HUD was covered with threat warnings. "All right, people, let's go get them," I said, wheeling my fighter away from the DropShips. All along the line of our escaping convoy, other Commonwealth fighters were doing the same. All feelings of betrayal, loss, and frustration were forgotten. Here at last was something I could understand: combat. Grand strategies and expediencies of war are of no concern to a fighter pilot, in whose mind even the most powerful drug is a pale shadow of the pure exhilaration of flight. Bright spots flared on the noses and wings of the Marik ships as they launched long- range missiles or fired particle cannons. My own fighter shivered as 30 ExoStar long-range missiles left their tubes. At over 100,000 km, the brief flashes of exploding warheads were only visible as tiny pinpoints of light that flared and faded in less than a second. The enemy ships were splitting off in pairs and flights to attack our DropShips or to engage our fighters. Kurtz and I turned to intercept a pair of F-90 Stingrays as they closed on a Union. Lightning flared from the Stingrays' PIPCs, raking the DropShip's armor. Lasers, autocannons, and missiles struck out in reply. The F-90s looped around, intending to make another pass. Kurtz and I caught up with them. Laserfire streamed from my wings, burning into the trailing F-90's fuselage and wings. Kurtz blasted the leader's nose and cockpit with a volley of long-range missiles. The Marik pilots, taken by surprise, split off from the DropShip and leapt upwards to challenge us. Head-on to our enemies, Kurtz and I sent searing bolts of laser energy into the Marik fighters. A charged particle stream rocked my Chippewa as it slammed into my fighter's nose. A pair of laser shots flashed past my canopy. Luke rolled out to the right, while I pulled around in a left Shandell turn. As the Marik fighters flashed between us, Kurtz and I dropped in on their tails, following a routine born of long practice. The F-90s went into identical right wingovers, angling back towards Wyatt. I turned to follow them, knowing without having to look that Luke was right behind me. Operating like one pair of hands, we tipped our fighters over into a steep drive and unleashed the full fury of the heavy weapons built into the Chippewa. The 'Slantback' which had been framed in my sights momentarily vanished in the flare of 36 exploding missiles. When it reappeared, I saw large gaps in its armor, its superstructure showing through in places. The F-90 which had been savaged by Luke's lasers and missiles had been blown in half just in front of its forward angling wings. The damaged Stingray tried to run, but a Lucifer from Blue Squadron shot it apart after a short chase. Luke and I looped back to the convoy, cutting across a pair of Rievers which were mauling a Leopard. Despite the DropShip's heavy armor, the Marik fighters had managed to inflict serious damage on the larger ship. Caught between two fires, the F-100s broke off their attack, skimming across the Leopard's beam. As Kurtz and I followed them, intense shafts of light snapped from the Leopard's guns. Our fighters were bracketed by the DropShip's fire, some of those powerful bolts actually striking home on our ships. "Steiner!" I screamed into my commlink. "We're on your side!" Luke's impassioned transmission was less than printable. Admittedly in the heat of battle the flying-wing silhouette of a Chippewa pretty closely matches that of a Riever. I couldn't be too hard on the Leopard's gunners. Distracted by the friendly fire, we gave the Mariks enough time to circle back and engage us. Heavy autocannon fire hammered my tail while a volley of missiles burst against my wings. "Luke, pull around to 172 mark 5 and punch it!" I shouted as another burst of autocannon fire slid past my ship. Without waiting for a reply, I stood on the right rudder pedal and slammed the control yoke down and right. When I came out of the tight diving turn, I rammed the throttle wide open. My transponder grid showed 3 ships behind me; Kurtz, still flying a standard scissors pattern, and the two Marik ships. Ahead of me loomed the vast bulk of an Overlord. If we could just sucker those Rievers into the DropShip's field of fire ... Then, I thought, I just hope those gunners can tell the difference between a Riever and a Chippewa! "Luke, follow me," I called. "Skim as close as you can to that Overlord." "You can't possibly be serious," Kurtz's answer was full of disbelief, until a volley of short range missiles blasted his ship. "Right behind you, Irish." Under full thrust, our CHP-W5's flashed past the Overlord, so close that Luke still swears that his starboard wingtip brushed the DropShip's hull. As soon as the huge vessel was between our fighters and those of the Mariks, I pulled around in what amounted to a controlled yaw. The high-G forces of the nose-for-tail flip would havecaused me to black out if not for my pressure suit, which forced my blood to remain where it belonged, not to pool up in my legs and feet. When I came out of that turn, I was heading straight back the way I had come, with Kurtz on my port wing. A flick of the yoke and a tap of the pedals yielded a hard targeting lock. I slammed my hand down on my fire control panel, sending thirty missiles and four laser bolts into the lead Riever. Kurtz copied my attack, raking the second Marik ship with his own heavy weapons. The suddenness of our attack caught the Mariks off guard long enough for us to fall in behind them. Lacking rearward defensive weapons, the Rievers struggled to shake our pursuit. Armor incandesced under the megajoule caress of our laser, and was shattered by the brutal impact of high explosive missile warheads. Suddenly one of the Marik ships collapsed, broken and battered by our hammering weapons. The other tried to roll out. It was destroyed by a DropShip's PPC battery. "Luke, you OK?" My own SSID showed moderate damage to both wings and my fuselage. "I'm a little shot up, but I'll make it," Kurtz replied. "How about you?" "N's not going to be too happy, but I'm still spaceworthy," I answered. "Can you see any of the others?" In the end, only 6 of the 18 fighters of Green Squadron survived. The Free Worlds pilots pursued us until our spaceborne convoy passed the orbit of Wyatt's solitary moon, destroying or capturing in the process eight of the thirty DropShips and shuttles used in the operation. Two more were captured on the ground. Skye Command called the operation a successful rearguard action with only moderate casualties. I call it a bloody waste. Over a thousand lives were lost, and who knows how many Cb worth of nearly irreplaceable equipment was destroyed - and for what? A tactical withdrawal. A fighting retreat. A consolidation of our force into a more defensible position. I've heard all the fancy terms the politicians and the High Command are using for the Wyatt pull-out. Under all the sugar coating, behind all the shiny facades, they all mean one thing: we lost at Wyatt. As a soldier, bound by duty to obey the orders of my superiors, I can understand the reasons for the whole rotten affair. Understanding the reasons doesn't make it any easier to accept the fact that we were ordered to leave. From all indications, it's settling down to be a long war, and I'm in it for the duration. Like most soldiers who risk their lives every day for God and country, I don't really care about expediencies or politics, but I have a message for those who do. Next time, let us win. Back to BattleTechnology 9 Table of Contents Back to BattleTechnology List of Issues Back to MagWeb Magazine List © Copyright 1990 by Pacific Rim Publishing. This article appears in MagWeb (Magazine Web) on the Internet World Wide Web. Other military history articles and gaming articles are available at http://www.magweb.com