"Mike Moscoe - BattleTech - MechWarrior - Dark Age 09 - Patriot's Stand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moscoe Mike)

Someone with McCallester fired off one of Mick’s bazookas. The tank in front of them vanished in a sheet
of smoke and flame. A ragged cheer was cut short as they realized the tank had fired a salvo of its own
rockets. The tank was already out of the smoke cloud and gunning for the foothills when the rockets started
hitting. One smashed into the boulder Brady was hiding behind. The rock shattered, sending shards in all
directions. The miner’s ’Mech fell back on its ass. Count on Brady for slapstick. McCallester brought up the
rocket thrower on the left arm of his MiningMech and fired. The rocket went wild, corkscrewing for parts
unknown.

Grace held her breath, expecting the next salvo from the tank to shred both ’Mechs, but the tank suddenly
lost interest.

A Navajo appeared as if from nowhere and tossed a satchel charge at the tank. The explosion blew the tank
sideways but didn’t seem to faze it. The tank’s minigun cut a slash in the valley floor as it went for its
attacker, but the Navajo had vanished back into the ground and another was up, shooting a rabbit rifle at the
tank. Even at this distance, Grace heard the shot ricochet off the rocket launcher. Damn, even the missile
boxes are armored. Don’t those things have any weak spots?

Before the tank could draw a good bead on its tormentor, others were up, shooting, maybe running a few
steps, shooting again, then vanishing. Other shots came from nowhere, like a rocket round that went straight
but fell short a few meters.

The tank charged in a shower of dirt and dry grass just as Grace spotted a pattern. Had the tank driver
realized what was being done to him? A Navajo would appear, attack, and disappear as another one, a bit
farther to the left, jumped up, got a shot off, and drew the tank farther toward Falkirk. That was the last thing
Grace wanted. The tank’s miniguns couldn’t be let loose among the homes of her friends. Some folks—old,
sick or just too damn set in their ways—had refused to flee to the hills.

Grace tapped the throttle and edged Pirate around the boulder that hid her. The attack on the tank seemed
to hold the ugly ’Mech’s attention. Maybe she could do something the raiders would remember.
MiningMechs often needed knee joints replaced, so maybe BattleMechs had the same weakness. She
toggled her Gatling gun to full power. Mick said a light squeeze would send a few rounds out. “Good for
ranging, me girl. When you got ’em where you want ’em, squeeze that trigger hard and that gun will cut them
a new one, yes she will, a nice big new one.”

Grace nudged the joystick until her crosshairs were right on the BattleMech’s knee, squeezed off a few
rounds, and watched as they cut the grass behind the BattleMech.

“Damn!” Grace grumbled as she walked the stream of high-powered 7.6-millimeter rounds into her target.



“Damn it, Godfrey,” L. J. snapped, “don’t play with them, boot them in the ass.” How often had his uncle
growled that at Loren as he learned the fighting trade? Now L. J. watched his sergeant’s enthusiasm for the
chase turn into a wild slalom. If he did any damage to the gnats that bit at him, no bodies were evident.

L. J. turned his ’Mech to face Godfrey, the better to give him a blistering dressing-down. At that moment the
dirt and crud flying from the blowers that held the tank on a thin cushion of air took on more substance. For a
second L. J. thought he was seeing rocks and chunks of earth flying out from under the tank.