TEXT: BATTLECORPS
  EVERY TWELVE 
  SECONDS…
  By Jeff Kautz
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Every Twelve Seconds • Page 2
  New Barstow, Xanthe III 
  Duchy of Andurien 
  Late May, 3037
  Brevet-Major Danny Spriggs dragged the razor upward along his 
  jawline, the dull blade scraping against the coarse stubble. He had 
  run out of shaving cream weeks ago, but he felt that, as an officer 
  in the Defenders of Andurien, he should present as professional 
  a picture as possible. An example to the troops. That’s what the 
  Colonel would have done. 
  Inspecting his face in the cracked mirror, he rinsed the razor in 
  the rusty water that had pooled in the dirty sink bowl for the past 
  several days. Clean water was another of the luxuries that had run 
  out for Danny and his men long ago. Along with food, medical 
  supplies, ammunition and time.
  As if to add ironic emphasis to the already dire situation, the shrill 
  of the enemy loudspeaker sounded again, creeping up and down 
  the front line as it had, unrelentingly, for the past four weeks.  
  “Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…Every twelve seconds another 
  son of Andurien dies in New Barstow. Tick-tock, tick-tock…When 
  will it be your time, comrade? Tick-tock, tick-tock”  
  The message repeated, once, twice drifting across the canal on a 
  spring breeze. The same breeze that fanned the fires and dropped 
  swirling clouds of ash that covered the streets of New Barstow 
  like ugly grey snow. The same breeze that carried with it the sickly 
  stench of death. 
  After so many weeks, the message was beginning to have the 
  desired effect on morale. A man could dig a hole and take cover 
  from enemy fire, or close his eyes to give himself a temporary re-
  spite from the horrors of the battlefield, but from the loudspeaker 
  there was no escape. It was impossible to block out, impossible to 
  ignore. Many of the men had taken to stuffing their ears with cot-
  ton, a futile measure at best but one that seemed to provide them 
  at least some small relief. Danny thought this dangerous and had 
  tried early on to discourage the practice. A soldier who could not 
  hear was a soldier who could not react to battlefield situations or 
  pass along orders. After a while, though, the unrelenting psycho-
  logical bombardment had forced him to let up. Some of the troops 
  seemed in danger of cracking, and he no longer had the heart to 
  enforce such discipline in the face of utter hopelessness.
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Every Twelve Seconds • Page 3
  Danny wiped a dingy cloth across his face, patting away the last 
  of the icy water and stared for long moments at the picture he 
  presented in the mirror. The face that stared back at him was no 
  longer his own. Gone was the dashing young Lieutenant, fresh 
  from officer candidate school, full of fervent idealism and ready 
  to carry the torch for Andurien independence. The image in the 
  mirror was now that of a man who appeared much older than his 
  twenty- six years. Dark circles had formed under hollow eyes that 
  had seen too much and deep lines scored like laser burns furrow-
  ing his cheeks and brow. His cracked and weathered skin seemed 
  as brittle as parchment paper, and the hair that had not been 
  rubbed away by his helmet straps was beginning to gray. The face 
  reminded Danny not so much of himself but of the Colonel, his 
  father, seven years ago on the last day the two had spent together. 
  Seven years that seemed so far away now, as if it were part of 
  another life, a wispy, fleeting dream devoid of detail that Danny 
  could no longer reform in his mind. So much had happened since 
  then.
  I’m glad that you didn’t live to see this, Colonel. The Colonel. John 
  Marshall Spriggs, the consummate career military man would 
  never have let discipline break down so far. He would have… It 
  didn’t matter. The Colonel was not here. Cancer had taken him 
  before he had a chance to realize his dream of Andurien indepen-
  dence, leaving only Danny to carry on in his place, and Danny felt 
  like a poor substitute.
  It had all seemed so right in the beginning. Their cause—the 
  Colonel’s cause—had been righteous and their enemy was weak 
  and war-weary. The Capellan Confederation would surely col-
  lapse under the weight of an assault by the Anduriens and their 
  Canopian allies. Early on, when the allies took several planets, 
  liberating their citizens, it had seemed a glorious victory was in-
  evitable. However, no one had properly estimated the resolve of 
  House Liao. Weak and tired of war they surely were, but they were 
  also a nation of wounded pride, having lost so much so recently to 
  Hanse Davion’s minions. They struck with unstoppable vengeance 
  and drove the allies back across the border. Their attacks were 
  often near suicidal in their recklessness as their warriors sought 
  their hopeless battle.
  That was two years ago. 
  Now, Danny and his men—what was left of them—faced their 
  own hopeless battle. But just a few short months ago, everything 
  had been different. Victory and final freedom for Andurien was 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Every Twelve Seconds • Page 4
  within their grasp, despite the Capellan setbacks. Duncan Marik 
  was dead and his forces routed. But, like the Capellans before 
  them, the Free Worlds troops rallied and delivered a series of star-
  tling blows to the Anduriens. 
  Now it was they who were on the run. The Fifth Marik Militia 
  was pushing into New Barstow and Danny’s battalion was one of 
  a handful of units left behind to buy time for the bulk of the allied 
  troops to escape. 
  To trade their lives for time.
  Danny rubbed his sleeve on the dirty window of his makeshift 
  headquarters and peered out over a city in ruins. Smoke and ash 
  obscured the sun. The skeletal remains of buildings jutted forth 
  from massive piles of rubble. The burned-out hulks of vehicles 
  smoldered and popped. The once beautiful canal that fronted their 
  positions was so choked with mud and debris that water no longer 
  flowed. The devastation was total and complete. Still, Danny could 
  not suppress a smile at the sight of a group of his men thrash-
  ing their legs and arms to form “ash angels” by the waters edge, 
  laughing in the face of almost certain death.
   How he admired them, their courage, their conviction. Even in 
  the most desperate of times, they retained a sense of camarade-
  rie. Most of the men and women in Danny’s battalion were not 
  professional soldiers. In their past lives, they had been factory 
  workers, salesmen, police officers, members of the unsanctioned 
  Andurien Reserves who put aside their blue collar civilian lives to 
  train together on weekends. They were, for the most part, people 
  accustomed to hardship. 
  Danny suspected that was the reason most of them had transi-
  tioned so well into their current roles as tankers, artillery gunners 
  and infantrymen. Whatever the reason, he was as proud of every 
  one of them as any father could be of his children. 
  The smile that crossed Danny’s face whenever he thought of his 
  troops was familiar. Danny had seen it soften the Colonel’s nor-
  mally stoic features on many occasions, for the final time on the 
  day when they had last spoken. The day Danny’s unit was called 
  up to participate in the invasion of the Capellan Confederation. 
  …Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Every Twelve Seconds • Page 5
  Are you still proud of me, Colonel? Is this what you wanted? 
  Gathering his helmet and sidearm, Danny left the headquarters. 
  He presumed it to have been a boarding house at a time before 
  the war, when it still had a second floor. He walked toward the ca-
  nal side where his men gathered around their parked vehicles. 
  The canal bisected the city of New Barstow along a north-south 
  axis. The Free Worlds troops under Colonel Garibaldi had attacked 
  in mid-April, pushing the Defenders of Andurien back further 
  with each new assault. The current defensive line, established on 
  the eastern bank of the canal, was meant to be the final barrier. 
  Command had ordered the bridges blown but there were no ex-
  plosives left and ammunition was too precious to spare on what 
  would have been a futile gesture in any case. Marik troops had ac-
  tually reached the eastern side ahead of the Anduriens at several 
  points and established strongly held bridgeheads. The canal itself 
  was only a few hundred meters across at its widest point; hardly 
  enough of an obstacle to deter jump capable BattleMechs. 
  So the Defenders of Andurien had been forced to abandon the 
  city altogether or else become completely surrounded. Danny’s 
  battalion was one of the unlucky few units picked to stay behind, 
  delaying the enemy for as long as their equipment and their re-
  solve held out. 
  Danny found his crew lounging beside their Von Luckner tank, 
  which Private Tim Nichols had named “Lucy B” in honor of his 
  girlfriend. Like the rest of the crew, Nichols was young, not yet 
  even old enough to order a beer on most of the worlds where he 
  had been asked to shed blood. He was the first to snap to atten-
  tion, hopping down from the tank’s front fender where he had 
  been eating chow. The rest of the crew quickly followed suit.
  “At ease, guys.” 
  …Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…
  …Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Every Twelve Seconds • Page 6
  Danny had worked with this same crew since the beginning of 
  the crusade and had developed a relaxed rapport with them. In 
  truth, they were tight, like a family. Even Danny’s quick rise in rank 
  after Major Mitchell’s death had not come between them. Danny 
  welcomed the closeness most times, but other times the thought 
  of losing these men, a possibility that seemed ever more likely as 
  the end drew nearer, brought him to the brink of physical incapaci-
  tation. 
  The Colonel had always cautioned him against getting too close 
  to those who served under him. 
  You’ll care too much. A time will come when you must give them 
  an order that may result in their deaths, and you won’t be able to 
  do it. You won’t have the stomach for it. 
  The Colonel had been right about so many things.
  A rumble descended from the clouds. Instinctively, all heads 
  turned upward as if their eyes could detect the source of the 
  sound.
  “Sounds like rain,” joked the loader, Thegn Sanchez, knowing full 
  well that the sound was not that of distant thunder. 
  Hundreds of meters behind their defensive line the first rounds 
  of the artillery barrage crashed into the city, pulverizing whatever 
  lay in their path. Two more rounds came screaming in, landing 
  closer this time. Their impacts shook the ground and their ripping 
  shrieks drowned out all other sound, except for the loudspeaker, 
  which droned on above the cacophony.
  Along the canal bank, men scrambled into action. Armor crews 
  swarmed over their vehicles, infantry squads mounted APCs or 
  moved out on foot to occupy prepared positions in the rubble. The 
  crew of the Lucy B reacted with efficiency born of repetition. They 
  moved with a sense of urgent calm, without a trace of panic, yet 
  Danny could read the tense anticipation in their expressions. Along 
  the canal bank, Danny witnessed the crews of his remaining tanks, 
  two Manticores and another Von Luckner, mounting their rides. 
  …When will it be your time, comrade? 
  ...Tick-tock, tick-tock…
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Every Twelve Seconds • Page 7
  Danny slid down the turret hatch into the commander’s cupo-
  la and eased into the seat, fastening his five-point harness. He 
  dogged the hatch shut and leaned forward to rest his forehead 
  against the padded periscope enclosure. His hands caressed a pair 
  of joysticks, which he would use to traverse the cupola, affording 
  himself a three hundred sixty degree view of his surroundings. If 
  need be, he could also use the sticks to control the tank’s weapons 
  systems. 
  The crewmen sounded off in turn as they assumed their duty 
  positions and performed systems checks. A blast of heat roiled 
  through the interior of the vehicle as the Lucy B’s rare and valu-
  able fusion power plant roared to life and the tank lurched forward 
  at a slow crawl.
  Opening the battalion comm channel, Danny began to receive 
  reports from his forward-most elements concerning the enemy 
  troop movements. They were pushing into the city from the west 
  with `Mechs supported by tanks and infantry. Danny had only 
  what was left of his armor and infantry to throw into their path. 
  Any Andurien `Mech that was still capable of operating under its 
  own power had been pulled out days ago. The huge machines 
  were considered too valuable to risk in a rear guard action. Unlike 
  men. There were always more men.
   Danny ordered the other vehicle of his lance, the Von Luckner 
  belonging to Master Banner Gary, to lead out across the nearest 
  canal bridge and directed Nichols to follow at a safe distance. The 
  Manticores, under Lieutenant Leetch, would cross the canal and 
  support the infantry along the right flank. 
  Artillery blasts were striking all along the canal bank, the enemy 
  gunners having found the range. The Defenders answered, their 
  own guns lashing out like dragons spitting long tongues of flame 
  as they began counter-battery operations. But even over the crash-
  ing of the guns, the radio chatter, the roar of the engine, Danny still 
  could not shake the din of the loudspeaker, with its ticking clock 
  and haunting voice, as if its rhythms were imbedded in his brain.
   
  “Enemy armor, eleven o’clock!”
  …Tick-tock, tick-tock…
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Every Twelve Seconds • Page 8
  The excited voice belonged to Master Banner Gary, his tank’s 
  turret already turning to meet the threat. Danny saw it as well and 
  called out the location to Sergeant Moritz, the Lucy B’s chief gun-
  nery officer. 
  Two Galleon tanks, urban camouflage colors slapped over their 
  purple parade ground paint scheme, crawled over a pile of rubble, 
  their treads struggling for purchase on the broken terrain. Galleons 
  were light tanks, possessing neither the armor nor the firepower 
  to stand toe to toe against the heavy Von Luckners. What they 
  did have was an excellent communications array that they could 
  use to direct artillery strikes or call in reinforcements. They would 
  have to be dealt with swiftly.
  Gary’s first shot caught the lead Galleon as it crested a debris 
  pile, the 130-millimeter projectile ripping open the light tank’s 
  thinly armored belly like it was made of tissue paper. 
  The Galleon belched smoke and slid down the near side of the 
  slope, fire licking from its crew hatches. 
  Surveying the scene through his periscope, Danny felt him-
  self hoping that the enemy crew would be able to exit the wreck, 
  but there was no time. The Galleon disappeared in a consuming 
  fireball that shredded the light vehicle, flipping it into the air and 
  depositing it on its roof. It was a death Danny would not have 
  wished on friend or foe.
  Witnessing the destruction of their comrades, the crew of the 
  second Galleon attempted to back down the rubble slope and 
  flee. Moritz’s shot flew high but still managed to shear away the 
  medium laser turret, robbing the vehicle of its only significant fire-
  power. 
  Gary’s crew lit up the enemy tank with a full SRM volley which 
  punched several large holes through the weak side armor and tore 
  away one of its tracks. 
  The Galleon skewed around and stopped, its hatches flying 
  open. The machine’s two-man crew, having no desire to end up 
  like their fellows, abandoned the tank and disappeared into the 
  rubble. Danny loosed a few volleys from the Lucy B’s machinegun 
  to discourage them from attempting to return.
  Ahead, Master Banner Gary’s tank traded SRM fire with a squad 
  of infantry that had holed up in the ruins to his front. Moritz direct-
  ed Nichols to rotate the Lucy B slightly in order to engage another 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Every Twelve Seconds • Page 9
  squad that was attempting to move down the right flank using the 
  shattered buildings as cover. 
  Moritz pounded the enemy troops with SRM fire, pinning them. 
  They answered with a furious burst of small arms fire. Rounds 
  pinged off the Lucy B’s hull like deadly hail, chipping away at the 
  tank while searching for weak spots in the Star Slab armor. Another 
  SRM volley crashed among the enemy squad and their fire slack-
  ened. Two long blasts from the hull-mounted flamer ended their 
  resistance with grave finality. 
  Through his periscope, Danny watched, horrified as a lone en-
  emy trooper staggered from the conflagration engulfed in flames 
  and trailing oily black smoke. A short burst of machinegun fire put 
  an end to the man’s agony. 
  “…last of it boss!” 
  Moritz’s voice in his ear snapped Danny back to reality. They 
  were out of missiles and down to their last few rounds for the 
  main gun. Master Banner Gary reported a similar situation. 
  Danny’s own wire-frame schematic showed some armor deg-
  radation along the front glacis and down the Lucy B’s starboard 
  side. 
  Sanchez was reporting minor engine damage. 
  Reports from his subcommanders spoke of a bleak situation. 
  Free Worlds troops were attacking at all points along the front, 
  and their forward units had begun to strike out from their bridge-
  heads in an attempt to surround the defenders. Danny scrambled 
  to assess the situation and deploy his depleted units into the best 
  positions to repel the attacks, all the while knowing it was an im-
  possible task. They were simply too few, too weakened from the 
  weeks of sustained fighting. Not enough. Nothing they could do 
  would be enough.
  …Tick-tock, tick-tock…
  …Tick-tock, tick-tock…
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Every Twelve Seconds • Page 10
  “Movement ahead,” Master Banner Gary’s voice carried an air of 
  near panic. “It’s big!”
  Near the end of the street, the gutted shell of a six-story office 
  building shattered and crumbled in a cascading shower of con-
  crete and steel. A wave of dust rolled over the Lucy B, exploiting 
  the cracks in her seals and seeping into the fissures between her 
  armor plates, obscuring vision and fouling sensors. The chalky, 
  white substance caked Danny’s nose and throat. He coughed and 
  spat, all the while wishing he had donned the now useless breath-
  er mask that hung unfastened below his chin.
  From within the cloud, an enemy Rifleman emerged like an 
  apparition, its barrel-arms spitting gouts of flame as hot shell cas-
  ings rained down into the rubble. The giant machine tracked its 
  fire down and across the turret of Gary’s Von Luckner, shattering 
  armor plate. Behind the Rifleman, another immense, humanoid 
  shape loomed out of the dust and smoke. A Vindicator.
  “Sanchez, load AP!” Danny’s hands tightened on the joysticks. 
  “Hit that Rifleman!”
  The Rifleman poured more fire into Gary’s tank, risking his heat 
  to add a large laser to the fusillade. Armor cracked and buckled. 
  Blue lightning leapt forward from the Vindicator’s particle can-
  non to crash into the tank’s side, leaving a jagged scar of molten 
  plating and several damaged road wheels in its wake.
  “Back up Gary! Get out of there!” 
  Danny would never know if Gary heard the order. A brace of mis-
  siles corkscrewed in, churning up the ground around Gary’s tank 
  and temporarily obscuring it from view. When the smoke cleared, 
  Danny could see that Gary’s radio antenna had been sheared 
  away. Gary stood his ground, defiantly loosing another volley in 
  the direction of the Rifleman. 
  His shot went wide.
  …Tick-tock…
  …Every twelve seconds…
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Every Twelve Seconds • Page 11
  The Lucy B rocked backward as Moritz engaged the Rifleman, 
  blasting the sixty-ton machine high in the torso. 
  The `Mech staggered backward under the massive blow but it 
  was too little, too late. Ruby spears from the Rifleman’s torsos 
  burned into Gary’s tank, exploiting the holes already punched in 
  the turret and front plate. The tank’s remaining autocannon rounds 
  cooked off inside the vehicle. The resulting explosion flipped the 
  seventy-five ton tank into the air and ripped the turret free. An un-
  recognizable, burning scar was all that remained where the tank 
  had been. 
  One vehicle. 
  Four men. 
  Friends.
  A wave of heat blasted through the Lucy B as Moritz hammered 
  the Rifleman with another round, this one shredding armor and 
  myomer beneath the machine’s left knee joint. The `Mech spun 
  slowly and crashed to the ground, only to be replaced by the 
  Vindicator, whose PPC beam washed over the Lucy B, sending 
  charred and melted plating spinning off in all directions. A missile 
  strike hammered into the rear deck. 
  Klaxons screamed in Danny’s headset. A flashing red indica-
  tor on his HUD warned of a fire in the engine compartment. The 
  Lucy B’s automatic fire control systems took over, flooding the 
  engine compartment with flame retardant foam. The supercooled 
  foam created a dense, white chemical mist that overwhelmed the 
  already sweltering interior. Danny gasped and wheezed as the 
  noxious chemical invaded his lungs. They could not take much 
  more of this type of pounding. 
  The Rifleman was already regaining his feet, arms swinging into 
  line with the Lucy B.
  “Nichols, get us in close.” 
  Danny knew their only chance was to get as close to the enemy 
  as possible. The `Mechs they faced were configured for combat 
  at long range; their weapons would be less effective at the poin-
  …Tick-tock…
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Every Twelve Seconds • Page 12
  blank ranges where the Von Luckner excelled. Danny repeated his 
  order but the Lucy B did not move. The Vindicator’s PPC glowed 
  with blue light as it prepared another charge.
  Assuming his comm had been knocked out, Danny used the toe 
  of his boot to tap Nichols on the back of his helmet. The man’s 
  body slumped forward in his seat to rest against the driver’s con-
  sole. 
  No!
  “Sanchez, take over for Nichols! All ahead full…” 
  The Lucy B rocked again under another assault. Autocannon 
  rounds tore into the turret and front plate, their echoes reverber-
  ating through the crew compartment. 
  The Rifleman had returned to the fight. 
  Still, the Lucy B remained motionless. 
  Danny undid the quick release on his five-point harness and 
  slipped down into the stifling interior of the tank. Smoke and burnt 
  propellant stung his eyes and seared his nostrils as he searched 
  the cramped confines for any sign of life. Sanchez’ body was 
  sprawled on the floor, wedged between the loaders seat and the 
  tank’s massive gearbox. Danny felt for a pulse but found none.
  Danny heard a shallow cough. Moritz was still alive but in bad 
  shape, his body covered with a mixture of dust, cordite, chemical 
  foam and blood. 
  …Tick-tock…
  …Tick-tock…Every twelve seconds…
  …another son of Andurien dies in  
  New Barstow...
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Every Twelve Seconds • Page 13
  The tank shook again. The few remaining interior lights winked 
  out as another PPC strike fused the electronics.
   The Lucy B was doomed. The revolution was doomed. The mis-
  sion would not succeed. The dream was dead. Just like Gary and 
  Nichols and Sanchez and all the others that Danny had failed to 
  protect. Only he and Moritz were left and no matter what, Danny 
  would not fail him. It was all that mattered now. Maybe it was all 
  that had ever mattered.
  Just as his father had predicted.
  Damn you, Colonel! You were always so right. Why did you al-
  ways have to be so right?
  He wrestled the wounded sergeant from the gunner’s seat and, 
  hauling him down from the turret, half-carried, half-dragged him 
  toward the front of the tank. If they could only make it to the front 
  escape hatch…
  The Lucy B bucked and trembled, quaking under a new series of 
  impacts. 
  Danny reached forward through the smoke. Groped for the 
  emergency hatch release. 
  A massive tremor shook the tank and a blast of heat knocked 
  him to the floor and punched the air from his lungs. 
  His fingers slipped from the hatch handle. 
  No more time. No more time.
  Are you still proud of me father?
  …When will it be your time, comrade?…
  …Tick-tock, tick-tock…
  …Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick…
  
  BATTLECORPS
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/BattleTech [multi]/EXTRA/Novels/Battlecorps Novels/Every Twelve Seconds - Jeff Kautz.pdf