[RP/MM][Complete] CSA v. FWLN Coventry 1417 ToP

[chaosxtreme]

Well first I missed the turn extension notice. :-) That is on me.

As to not posting for weeks, I could say the same thing about you on Abejjoral or a couple of other threads that got left hanging.

My question on why you were rolling was legitimate and to be honest I don't really mind that you rolled I do however mind your reply it really wasn't friendly.

But man putting all that to the side as it really doesn't matter, there is no Dec turn so I don't know why your trying to rush the survival rolls Dave's rolled all the combat for this turn.

We have until the end of December to "clean" our threads up and anyway you look at it this hex is contested until at least January real life.

Anything else you would like to bring up?

Technically they aren't your ships anymore.   (not that their CSA yet either)

It's never mentioned any restrictions on rolling for hulks.  Based on the precedent from the last large fight at Tamar, the victor rolled them(Fate rolled for all dead warships).  Grae's on and I asked him on IM if he wanted to roll his.  You weren't on (would have asked if you were), plus you haven't replied in this thread for close to 2 weeks. 

I'm trying to get ready for the next cycle and updating the naval tab after a big fight sucks.  Is it bad that I'm happy to just delete lines for the completely dead ships?

[chaosxtreme]

FWL Percentages of damage done in the same manner as the FS.

[Fatebringer]

We have until the end of December to "clean" our threads up and anyway you look at it this hex is contested until at least January real life.

We still have November to play out, although it's starting late, then we'll have extra time to clean up Novembers thread.

[Dave Baughman]

Allied Ground Force is light by 48.5 FP

Source of Force and numbers are in a PM to the GM's.

This is correct, there was an RWR force present that was not accounted for.

Corrected allied damage dealt should be 164.75.

[DisGruntled]

We figured to go ahead and account for it to be on the safe side and the sheet Grae's submitted has the increased damage on it. 

[DXM]

(( This thread is full of combat rolls and dialogue, but not a lot of combat roleplaying.  I decided to fix that.  Enjoy.  ))

Charlton Ridge, Coventry
Lyran Space


Lieutenant Daniel Marc pulled up gently on the collective, and the Warrior rose slowly until it was barely peeking above the rock-strewn ridgeline.  Marc tapped a few controls on the console and craned his neck around to look at his rear-seater.

"Tommy -- anything?"

Chief Warrant Officer Tommy Callahan, his weapons officer, fiddled with his own screen for a moment and shrugged.  "Some magnetic returns, but nothing solid yet," he replied.  He toggled his wireless.  "Bandit Zero-Four, this is One-Six.  You got anything?"

Four hundred meters down the ridgeline, also playing peekaboo, was the other H7 in their air weapons team, being piloted by CWOs Matt Weinrich and William McKenna.  "16, nothing -- wait a tic."  He paused.  "Tally-ho!  Multiple contacts on MAD, grid mike-bravo-three-one-seven-nine seven-seven-zero-two.  Confirm."

Marc squinted against the glare of Coventry's sunlight, but couldn't get a visual on the tracks his wingman had picked up.  Tommy though had them nailed on his on sensor-screens, and the front-seater pulled up the feed on his console.

"Damn," he whispered even as Callahan called back to Bandit 04.

"Confirm.  Looks like ten, maybe twelve from here."

The radio crackled as McKenna answered.  "Looks like ten, in Adder-tan.  Second column moving up behind them."

"Roger, 04," Marc -- known as D-mac amongst the men in his troop -- replied.  "Displace, prepare for covering fire."  The other aircraft dropped back down behind the ridge and began to inch away from the ridge, but Marc's mind had already moved on.  He punched up the brigade net and took a deep breath.  "Titan Red Leg, Titan Red Leg, this is Bandit 16, over."

Red Leg responded with a wash of static overlaying his transmission.  "Bandit 16, this is Titan Red Leg, over."

"Titan Red Leg, request fire mission, over."

"Ready to copy, over."

"Roger, kill-box five-five, keypad two.  Grid mike-bravo-three-one-seven-nine seven-seven-zero-two.  Two-zero Bravo Mikes, in the open.  Requesting H-E, over."

"Roger, confirm target mike-bravo-three-one-seven-nine seven-seven-zero-two, HE, full spread, over."

"Confirmed."

"Roger, Bandit 16.  Rounds on the way, over."

There was a pause and then, a dozen kilometer away, the massed Long Tom batteries of the 111th Coventry Armored Regiment opened up.  A full field artillery battalion could put thirty-six tubes in action, but only one of them actually fired.

The column of Star Adder BattleMechs had exited the treeline by now, and D-mac watched as they proceeded in an orderly march in rows of two as they pushed west towards the main concentrations of the 8th Phalanx's force.  The Old Man had pooled all of his 'Mech battalions and even some of his armor in the hope of sucking the Adders into attacking him; apparently, it had worked.

The single artillery round -- a rocket-assisted 155mm projectile -- fell short by a couple hundred meters and in front of the west-bound Adders.  They saw the plume of the round striking and, no matter what one felt about the Clanners, they weren't stupid.  The column began to break apart as the faster 'Mechs tried to spread out to avoid the deluge that was coming.

Incidentally, it wasn't going to be enough.

"Red Leg, adjust fire," Marc said, fighting to keep his voice even.  "Adjust one up and fifty right, over."

"One up, fifty right, confirmed.  Rounds."

A different Long Tom fired, and Marc heard the scream of the shell fly past overhead.  This time, the round was on target and impacted less than two meters from a very unfortunate Loki.  The heavy 'Mech disappeared in a cloud of smoke and soil that fountained skyward; it re-appeared a moment later, staggering away from the blast site with its entire right flank ripped to smoking shreds.

Marc couldn't keep the adrenaline -- or the viciousness -- from his voice this time.  "On target!  Clanners in the open, fire for effect!"

Behind him, all thirty-six guns opened fire and the scream of each individual shell was swallowed in a communal freight train-roar as three dozen rounds fell from the sky.

In ages past, the field artillery had received the moniker "king of the battlefield."  Most people these days considered that epithet more fitting for the BattleMech.  It possessed greater speed, agility, power, and versatility than any artillery piece had every achieved throughout the long string of centuries since the first primitive cannon had been fired in anger.  Daniel Marc had once agreed with those people, and even tried to be a MechWarrior; he'd fail to make the cut at the Nagelring and got pushed off into aviation.  But watching the result of that barrage shook his faith in the all-mighty BattleMech.

Each of the three batteries in the battalion was in a different place, to avoid losing all of the guns to counter-battery fire (even if the Clans didn't employ artillery, the Traitor Charlies did).  But the RRA used a technique first perfected by the United States Army of ancient Terra during the Second World War called the time on target delivery.  Shortened to TOT, a time on target barrage meant that each gun in the dispersed battery, battalion, or even regimental artillery group fired at a different time so that every gun put rounds on the ground at virtually the exact same time.

Thirty-six 155mm rounds simultaneously impacting in a box about fifty meters square was an awe-inspiring thing to see.

The earth seemed to simply vomit, casting clods and loose soil into the air and cloaking the area in an impenetrable haze.  The unfortunate Loki vanishing from sight once more as one of the rounds hit it directly, obliterating the machine and casting scrap in all directions for a hundred meters or more.  A dozen other 'Mechs took direct hits or suffered from the debilitating effects of near-misses, flopping about like drunkards stumbling from a bar.  And that was just the first salvo.

A second roared in just a few moments later, and a third soon after.  Round after round slammed down, churning the ground at the foot of the Charlton Ridge into a rippling, cratered moonscape where nothing could possible have survived.

After six salvos, the sky stopped falling.  A breeze, called into being by the mass of air displaced by thirty seconds of explosions, slowly wafted away the smoke and dusty haze and displayed to Lieutenant Marc his handiwork.

The better part of twenty Clan BattleMechs -- two full binaries of Star Adders, bred for war and raised from birth to engage in duels of honor -- lay broken and scattered across the heaved-upon earth.  Miraculously, impossibly, not all of them had died.  Here, a Hellfire limped clear, its left leg being dragged behind it.  There, a Daishi staggered from the thinning clouds, its armor rent but structure intact.  A pair of Dashers, faster even than his own helicopter, had managed to escape the kill-box entirely and now came racing back in to look for survivors.

No, not survivors.  Spotters.

"Titan Red Leg, this is Bandit 16.  Good effect.  Recommend you displace, and thanks for the assist."

"Any time, Bandit.  Red Leg out."

Marc dropped a little collective and allowed the Warrior to drop out of sight, then pulled back on the cyclic.  The helicopter responded, backing slowly away from the ridgeline.  He had hoped that their low-profile pop-up had allowed them to escape detection, but apparently Clan sensors were one more than that was better than their Inner Sphere counterparts.

The two Dashers appeared at the top of the ridge, their gun-laden arms tilting down at the exposed Warrior.

"16, break right!"  Marc slammed the cyclic to the right and feathered his left foot pedal.  The Warrior's tail-end swung around even as it shot away to one side, and then he was away from the two 'Mechs.  Behind him, his wingman's autocannon ripped into the pair of Clanners, chewing away at their tissue-thin armor.  Distracted, the Dashers turned away from his bird.

Big mistake.

Marc swung up and around in a gentle turn, coming around and gaining altitude.  It was a risk -- he was exposing his aircraft to fire from the other survivors -- but it was a necessity if he was to avoid shooting up his own wingman.  Once he'd hit about three hundred meters of altitude, he put the nose down and dove. . . straight at the pair of recon 'Mechs.

"04, this is 16," he commed, "bumping over."

"Roger, breaking," the other replied as he fell back behind a clump of trees and began falling back.

The Dashers had greater straight-line speed than his Warrior, but not by much.  And when performing a bump-over-dive, he was actually moving faster than they were.  He'd also planned well, originally pointing his nose at a spot in front of the running OmniMechs.  They ran right into Tommy Callahan's cross-hairs at a range of less than a hundred meters.

"Firing!" he called as he squeezed his triggers.  The nose-mounted autocannon roared, walking sparks up one Dasher's back and ripping open its armored casing.  The wing-mounted missile launchers spat projectiles that traced contrails across the sky before scattering hits up and down both 'Mechs.  Both of the pursuers stumbled and fell over.

Marc pulled up out of the dive and shot away, not bothering to take a look back or make a second pass.  Even if those two were completely dead, it didn't much matter.  This was Coventry, and there were plenty more where they came from.