* * *

Connor Sinclair’s Bushwacker was already secured into its drop-pod, ready for the imminent deployment. The egg-shaped shell would act as heat shield and extra armor for the penetration of Tranquil’s upper atmosphere. Explosive charges would separate the pod from BattleMech well after the insertion, allowing the large ‘chute to arrest the fall and settle the ‘Mech easily to the ground.

Sinclair squirmed through the access opening and lowered himself on a short chain ladder to the shoulder of the squat titan. Standing just shy of eight meters in height the Bushwacker was shorter than the average ‘Mech, and with its turret-style shoulder joints and widespread arms was actually wider than it was tall. But for a 55 ton machine it was well armed and armored, with an average targeting system profile. Capable of running up to 85 kilometers per hour -- perhaps a touch more if he handled it right -- the Bushwacker would make a good raider.

A technician held a spotlight into the pod, picking out the hatch set over the BattleMech’s cockpit area. Connor dropped down into the cockpit, dogging the hatch behind him with a quick spin of the inside wheel. Off came the slacks and shirt, leaving the lieutenant in knee-length shorts, T-shirt and combat boots -- a MechWarrior’s^® true uniform. Pulling his cooling vest from a small locker, he then stored his officer’s uniform in its place. The vest was made from ballistic cloth ribbed with small tubes of ashqua coolant, designed to offset the extreme heat of a BattleMech cockpit. Sinclair pulled it on and settled himself into the Bushwacker’s pilot seat.

A power cord stretched from the right side of the control chair, and Sinclair plugged its end into the mating socket on his cooling vest. The chilling coolant immediately raised gooseflesh on his arms, though he knew he’d be thankful for its touch later. From a pouch to one side of the seat, he pulled self-adhesive monitoring pads which he stuck to upper arms and inner thighs. The trailing leads he gathered in his lap, then grabbed his neurohelmet off a nearby shelf and settled it over his head. Among other things, the neurohelmet would help translate his own sense of balance to the BattleMech’s massive gyro. He plugged the leads into the sockets set into the left side of the helmet. A thicker cable, this one feeding from its housing on his control panel, fastened to the neurohelmet at a large socket set into the throat guard.

Himself prepared, all that remained was to bring the Bushwacker to life.

A series of toggles released the dampening field which had banked the fusion fires of the BattleMech’s reactor. A rumble more felt than heard rose from below and in back of Sinclair, and his cockpit control panel lit up as power flooded the circuits. Heat scale registered in the cool-blue tones of a BattleMech at rest, and all threat indicators remained silent. His Head-Up Display glowed a ghostly, transparent green against the inside of his helmet’s faceshield. Sinclair turned off the HUD, not needing its distraction until ready for combat.

“Security check, Lieutenant Connor Sinclair,” he said, then waited while the computer tore apart his voice and matched it against the secure print buried within its memory.

“Voiceprint match confirmed.” The computer’s voice was soft, almost feminine, but still mechanical in delivery. Connor was not one of those who preferred to alter it for more human characteristics. Some MechWarriors^® even used recordings of their wives or girlfriends. A bad habit, in his opinion. BattleMechs^® were machines of warfare -- better to not get too attached. “Proceed with security sequence,” the computer prompted him.

Because voiceprints could be faked, MechWarriors^® often installed a second layer of security -- a code phrase, which only they would know. “We are united and committed to a bright new future,” Connor said, having chosen a line from Prince Victor’s first Star League address.

“Verified. All functions now at your command.”

An easy switch opened up the secure channel of his lance. “Connor Sinclair on-line and ready for drop. Commando One, report.”

Tessa, Keith, Dominic; one by one they all checked in ready for drop. Sinclair switched over to the Black Hammer’s command frequency. “Commando One ready for drop,” he reported.