[img]http://i.imgur.com/GZv7xCX.jpg[/img]

"Overwatch element, advance until you acquire targets and engage. Concentrate fire on targets together and call them out. Keep it to LRM's and AC's, rest the lasers until you need them." That was a nod to the heat from Hart. "Keep them busy with your fire. Do not close distance at this time."

"Rat 1-5, I want support weapons targeted to the coordinates I am sending you. I want your spotter in reserve to designate new targets at discretion once we engage," fingers clicking against a nine-key board to designate grid reference.

"The rest of you advance slowly to keep the heat down as much as possible. Eichberg, you are tasked with engaging the Urbanmech at range when you visually acquire it, I want that thing destroyed. We will provide close support and keep any friends this pirate has off flanks. We are at standoff range until that Urbie is destroyed."

Mattlov eased his way forward on the orders, along with Wulfhart and Burns, mindful of the scope, and one ear on the comms.

"Rat 2-2 here, identifying a T-D-R variant, looks like a retrofitted 5S, nonstandard armament." He gave a feather-light touch of his trigger, firing the autocannon with a terrifically loud snap of the weapon and the clang of the ammunition system. Not for nothing Mattlov had a loving affinity with autocannons that included listening for the sound of another round chambering. No lasers, and the SRM's were not in range, so he settled his mech into a good outcropping for cover, giving the barest sort of exposure he could give and still fire.

The Thunderbolt was turning, with a mostly torso-mounted array of weapons. He was already calculating his shift back into cover, after the second shot...if he timed it right, he might even get a good torso hit instead of a piece of the arm, like the first shot. His thought processes noted the registering of the hit and the next squeeze of the trigger without necessarily bringing it into the forward conscious. A mechwarrior, his mother told, fought in the machine, with his consciousness, even the parts not overtaken by the neurohelmet's connection, finding itself in a symbiotic relationship with the machine. 

Blue, crackling light, a hateful little comet, pounded against the nearby rock that he'd just gotten to cover behind, chipping off a portion of it and briefly flaring too brightly for the flare compensators to properly match for a half a second.

"PPC fire," he noted coldly to his lancemates, "Far range, accurate," he further noted.