"BattleTech 06 - Gray Death Legion 01 - Decision at Thunder Rift - William H Keith" - читать интересную книгу автора (Battletech)

forearm. The readouts showed those weapons systems powered up and swinging into line, showed turrets on the grounded freighter bracketed by crosshairs and the steady flicker of range and target acquisition data.
The left arm laser beamed invisible, coherent light across the DropShip's lower hull plates and baffles, and a weapons turret fragmented in flame and hurtling chunks of metal.
"Acknowledged, Captain." Griffith's voice was steady as he answered Carlyle's statement that the Phoenix Hawk was under attack, but beads of perspiration had broken out along his eyebrows and mustache. He paused to read a printed message flickering across one of the monitor screens. "Security Chief Xiang's on his way from our shuttle. He'll be in position to support you in two minutes!"
There was no answer as another particle beam caught the Phoenix Hawk, staggering the heavy machine and threatening to melt through already smoldering armor. Carlyle's 'Mech whirled, dissipating the killer beam, then fired a twin laser burst, tracking the enemy cannon by its infra-red glow. There was a savage blast as white-hot, multi-ton fragments rained across the landing area.
Another man joined the knot of staff personnel at the console. Ernest Hauptman was the pilot of the Lance's number two machine. He wore his Lieutenant's blue-rimmed, gray dress uniform, with worry hung from his shoulders like a cape. Normally, he would be piloting the 55-ton Shadow Hawk that now lay helpless in the Repair Bay. At the moment, his duty station was in Combat Command, and he didn't like that at all.
"Griff, we got problems," Hauptman said.
"The intruders are up to the deck below. Looks like they're making a try for Combat Command."
"Who are they, Lieutenant? Trells?"
The big man shook his man. "Can't tell. They're in combat sneak-suits. Can't get a better look until we take one."
"Then let's do it." Griffin stood, then looked over at Grayson. "Son, we'd best get you to . . ."
"No, Griff! Not now!" Grayson still sat before the monitor. The screen showed little more than wild zigzags of movement punctuated by the white flare of exploding missiles and stabbing beams.
"Riviera, I've got to go," the Weapons Master said tersely. "You'll get him out if it gets tight?"
"Right, Griff. We'll be O.K. I can use him here on the commlink."
"Right."
Grayson turned back to the monitor as Hauptman and Griffin hurried away. The battle at the landing port was developing with savage speed. He wanted to do something, to help, but there was nothing to do but watch.
The Phoenix Hawk was running, taking five-meter strides that echoed thunder above the blast and crash of exploding shells. Grayson thought about how dependent a pilot was on his 'Mech's mobility on the battlefield. Even more than on his armor, for the pilot's commands to his gigantic steed could not be anticipated by fire-control computers. But in a close range battle such as this one, fire-control could be of the point-in-that-direction-and-fire variety and still score hits.
A sound like a tornado's roar and light too bright to bear burst from the monitor. Carlyle's Hawk was hit hard by a medium-range missile that fire-balled across the right upper rear of its body and smashed the 'Mech into the ferrocrete.
"Dad!"
Grayson's involuntary scream into an open mike brought Riviera's hand down on his shoulder. "Don't clog the commlink, young sir. It can't help him."
"S-sorry." Grayson struggled for control. For him, battle had never been so gut-wrenchingly personal. "He's hit!"
The image monitor showed the pavement swinging down and away as the 'Mech staggered back to its feet. Smoke swirled across the scene. By the unsteady light of a fire burning somewhere near, Grayson could make out the flitting shapes of troops running from shadow to shadow.
"I'm O.K., son." Carlyle's voice over the commlink was steady, though Grayson heard the tightness of battle strain edging the words. "Is Griff there?"
"Griff's helping coordinate the defense," Riviera cut in. "We're being attacked here, too."
"Damn. We've been had."
"Who is it, Dad?"
The monitor image swooped, dipped, and spun. They heard the staccato rattle of the Hawk's heavy machine guns blazing away at half-screen targets in the smoke. Tracers floated lazily across the screen as they tracked a racing vehicle that skimmed just above the ferrocrete on howling fans. A light autofire cannon stuttered and winked in reply from the darkness.
The hovercraft vanished in smoke and shadow. "I don't know, Gray," his father replied at last. "They're not traders, though, that's for damn sure!"
"Hendrik's pirates?" Riviera said.
"I don't know. Could be. But why? By all the gods of space, why?"
Grayson looked across the room at Vogel. The Commonwealth representative was rooted to a monitor console, white-faced and stricken. The alliance with Hendrik had been HIS idea.
Riviera followed Grayson's gaze. "He's watching his career die on that screen," he said, and Grayson nodded. The man was clenching his hands, which gave them the appearance of being gripped by some dreadful spasm.
There was a searing flash and a blast that stunned the listeners in Command Control. The Phoenix Hawk was down again, with half a dozen flashing red indicators clamoring for attention. On the screen, Grayson could make out twisted metal, paint-charred and still smouldering. It took him dazed seconds to recognize in the debris half of the Hawk's right arm, its steel fingers still closed across the grip of the heavy laser, now lying on the pavement in blasted ruin.
"Sergeant?" Carlyle's voice was tight now, almost inaudible across the blast of battle static.
"Sir! Are you all right?"
"Gyros hit ... port servos out . . . having trouble stabilizing. Looks like the right arm and main gun are gone too. I'm ... hit pretty bad ..."
Riviera was studying another monitor. "Hang on, Captain! Xiang's on his way with the security patrol! They'll be close enough to support you in a few seconds!"
The Hawk was on its feet again, and telemetry readouts showed it was firing into the smoky darkness as rapidly as the single remaining heavy weapon could be recharged, stabbing invisible beams of laser light at half-glimpsed targets whenever the 'Mech's computer trackers could pick them up from IR scans. An infra-red mosaic overlaid the visible light image, picking out running figures in light blue, the white-hot geysers of vehicle engines, the towering mountain of yellow heat that was the grounded DropShip a few hundred meters away. Much of the enemy fire was coming from the freighter, which was obviously much better armed than any freighter had a right to be. Carlyle had blasted at least five turrets that he could identify, and the returning fire had scarcely slackened at all. It appeared that beam weapons had been temporarily mounted in ports cut right into the hull metal.
"What's . . . status ... in the base?" Carlyle's words came in grunts now, as he gasped for air. The computer readout showed the cabin temperature was climbing steadily, blasted higher by each maneuver, by each discharged weapon and hit.
"Inside job, I think, Captain. Someone disabled some of our security cameras and opened the Repair Bay outer lock. The fight's pretty hot down there."
"Hauptman?"
"With Griffin, fighting the intruders."
"Tell him ... he's in command. Get the Lance . . . out of there. We . . . can't . . . stay . . . Trellwan longer ..."
"Dad! Hang on! Xiang's almost there!"
"I see him. His troops are spreading out across the paving. I ..."
There was a long silence. "Captain!" Riviera shouted.
"Son of a bitch ..." The words were spoken quietly, almost reverently. The image monitor was focused now on the base of the grounded freighter, at the gaping maw of an open hatch with a heavy black ramp sliding to the scarred ferrocrete. The IR overlay gave the scene a glistening, unreal quality, colored harshly where no color would normally be visible.
Something was lurching down the ramp, coal-black against the yellow glow of the freighter's hull. The imaging camera zoomed in, resolving the silhouette into grey metal and glistening joints. Targeting crosshairs snapped on, with four beads of light tracking in to meet in a pulse of light at the bullseye center. Laser scan readouts flickered on one side, showing range, height, mass, and bearing. Grayson didn't need the computer ID to tell him what he was seeing. It was a 'Mech, the kind known as a Marauder.
The Marauder did not share the humanoid appearance of most 'Mechs. Instead, its 75 tons of arms and armor were molded into a crab-like body mounted on a pair of oversized legs that knifed back and down in a forward-leaning, digitigrade stance.
The machine was old, patched and etched with the signs of frequent repairs and replacements. The black and grey paint pattern was broken in places by brown rust and old battle scars. A pair of arms hung suspended from just forward of the leg joints, each mounting a heavy particle cannon and a laser in over-under mounts where hands and forearms might be expected in a living being. The massive tube of a 120 mm rapid-fire autocannon balanced above the body, completing the battle machine's armament.
The Phoenix Hawk was 30 tons lighter, normally far more maneuverable, but still badly outclassed by the bigger machine in any 'Mech-to-'Mech slugmatch. And the Hawk was already crippled . . .