Pappy looked over just as the cylinder blasted out of KC’s foxhole, arcing its leisurely way toward the tank.
And that was that. When the bomb hit the ground by the wheels and blasted its cargo of cement into the drive mechanism, the Ueys might as well kiss the Dunsland goodbye and start walking. The only question would be whether they would walk toward Hadley Dome and try to attack on foot or else retreat back to wherever their local staging area was for this operation. The canister hit the top of its arc and started back down.
In perfect unison, the three shieldbearers jumped straight up, still shoulder to shoulder, the edges of their shields pressed together. They rose higher, their momentum and timing moving them directly into the cylinder’s path.
And as Pappy watched in disbelief and chagrin, their shields intercepted the bomb. There was a burst of foamy white liquid as the canister exploded—
And then the Ueys were floating back down to the surface. Their shields were now cemented solidly together, with the handful of stray tendrils that had flowed over the shield tops sticking rigidly out into space like frozen octopus legs. One tendril, thicker than the others, had managed to stay liquid long enough to attach itself to the shoulder of the Uey on the end.
The shields had been rendered mostly useless. One of the soldiers would similarly be at minimal performance until he could get the cement off his suit.
But the Dunsland—the immobilizing of which had been whole reason for the bombs in the first place—had escaped unscathed.
“Well, damn,” KC growled. “How the hell did they know we had vac-cement bombs?”
“I doubt they did,” Pappy said. “The plan was just for them to block anything we threw at them.”
“Including real bombs?”
Pappy nodded. “Including real bombs.”
“Damn idiots,” KC muttered. “They could have died right there.”
“They’re soldiers,” Pappy said soberly. “That’s what soldiers do.”
There was a moment of silence. Across by the Dunsland, the three men and their—now—single shield were heading around the rear of the tank. One of them was trying to bounce, but the other two still insisted on using their awkward walk and the third gave up after a couple of steps and went back to doing it their way. “So it’s back to paintballs?” KC asked.
“At least until they clear out the monofil,” Pappy said, peering through his scope. Somewhere during the confusion the machine gunner he’d paintballed had disappeared from his cage, presumably going back inside where he could work on his Kord with fingers instead of gauntlets.
The other guard was still standing ready, though. He would be the first target, Pappy decided, followed by the Dunsland’s own viewports. As long as the vehicle was stalled, he might as well keep it that way as long as possible.
“Hold it,” Morgan said suddenly. “More company, coming around the Dunsland’s right side.”
Pappy scowled as he shifted his scope that direction. More company, and more shields. Three more shieldbearers had appeared from the rear hatch, moving briskly toward the front to take their cemented comrades’ positions.
“Damn,” KC muttered. “I was hoping to get another shot at the wheels.”
“We still might,” Pappy said, frowning at the untangling group by the wheels. They seemed to be having a conversation of sorts. Which, judging by some of the hand gestures, was becoming a little heated.
Morgan had noticed it, too. “What do you think they’re arguing about?” she asked uneasily. “Maybe whether to give up on the Dunsland and just go in on foot?”
“Will that get them what they want?” Pappy asked.
Morgan threw him a quick frown. “What?”
“The Mimic,” he said pointedly. “Can they get it out of Hadley without the Dunsland?”
“Who needs their Dunsland?” KC scoffed. “There are ten other vehicles that size in there they could commandeer.”
“And risk getting out in the middle of nowhere when the Loonies’ sabotage catches up with them?” Pappy shook his head. “I sure as hell wouldn’t take that risk with a borrowed vehicle. So; Morgan?”
“I can’t tell you, Pappy,” she said, her voice tight.
“You have to,” Pappy insisted. “I need to know what I’m working with. I need to know the parameters. I need to know what I’ve got in the way of bargaining position if it comes to that.”
“Bargaining?” KC asked. “Who says we’re going to bargain with them?”
“If it comes to that,” Pappy repeated. “Morgan?”
“Hold that thought, Pappy,” KC said. “They’re up to something.”
Pappy looked back at the Dunsland. The Ueys had finished their discussion and four of the six headed back toward the rear hatch. They met the replacement shieldbearers halfway along the side and the two groups passed each other. “Giving up so soon?” he murmured.
“Probably decided to try something else,” Morgan said. “Maybe acids or a different type of cutter.”
“Or they’re just going to get more guns,” KC muttered.
“They need the Dunsland to move the Mimic,” Pappy said. “Right, Morgan?”
She didn’t answer. “Fine,” Pappy growled. “Either way, this is our chance.”
“Our chance for what?” KC muttered.
“To take the bastards down for good,” Pappy said, frowning. KC’s tone had suddenly taken a nosedive. “You okay, KC?”
“Oh, sure,” KC said. He didn’t sound especially okay. “My brain just caught up with me, that’s all. They’ve got machine guns. They’ve got soldiers. We’ve got paintballs. What the hell are we doing?”
“Our job,” Pappy said firmly. “So they’ve got numbers. We’ve got brains.” He nodded toward the Dunsland. “Let’s give them another cement bomb.”
“Okay.” There was a hollow-sounding hiss as KC took a deep breath. “So where do the brains come in?”
“Right now,” Pappy said. “Morgan, get your catapult ready. As soon as that new batch of shieldbearers are in position between us and them, lob your bomb at the tank.”
“They’ll just block it again,” Morgan warned.
“Yep,” Pappy agreed. “And once they’ve done that, while they’re floating back down, I’ll throw my bomb. They won’t be able to react, and hopefully no one else will have time to, either.”
The last word was barely out of his mouth when the remaining machine gunner abruptly opened fire again.
Reflexively, Pappy ducked his head, only then noticing that the rounds weren’t coming anywhere near his foxhole. Instead, the entire salvo seemed to be going in KC’s direction.
But not at his foxhole. Instead, they bullets were blasting into the steep-faced rock stack on KC’s far side, splintering them into stone chips and sending them spinning into the sky in lazy arcs.
“Too late, Bozo,” KC said sarcastically, lifting a one-fingered salute toward the Ueys even as he prudently ducked his head below ground level. “I already used my bomb. And you’re a lousy shot, too.”
Pappy caught his breath as he suddenly understood. “KC—down!” he snapped. “He’s not missing. He’s trying for a ricochet!”
KC snarled a curse. “Son of a bi—”
The word disintegrated into a grunt of pain. “Aahh!”
And to Pappy’s horror he saw twin puffs of expanding air drift up out of the other foxhole. “KC?” he snapped.
There was nothing but a low moan. “KC?” he called again. The Uey machine gunner was still firing into the rock stack. “Report, soldier.”
“Yeah,” KC said. It was more a curse than a word. “Yeah. Okay. Got me.”
“How bad?” Pappy asked. He couldn’t see any more leaking air, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Even autoseal could only do so much, and it was entirely possible that the ricochet had dug a hole big enough that the suit would have no choice but to close off the affected area. In that case, one of KC’s limbs or a large section of his torso could alre
ady be exposed to vacuum. “Where are you hit?”
“I don’t think it’s too bad,” KC said through clenched teeth. “Shoulder—hurts like hell. And I think he got my helmet, too.”
Pappy mouthed a curse. “Okay, hang on,” he said, unplugging his direct line to KC. He started to unplug Morgan’s as well—“Morgan, I need cover fire,” he said. “On three, start firing at anything over there with a faceplate, starting with that S.O.B. with the machine gun. And for God’s sake, keep your head down.”
“If I keep my head down, I’m not going to be able to hit anything,” she warned.
“I don’t care if you hit him,” Pappy said. “I just need him too busy to shoot at me. One, two, three.”
He yanked out her comm cable, put his hands on the edge of his foxhole, and with a convulsive push launched himself out onto the surface. Keeping as low as he could, his skin crawling with anticipation of the bullet that was surely on its way, he crossed the open ground in a handful of short kangaroo bounces and jumped into KC’s foxhole.
And nearly landed on the other man. KC was sprawled on the bottom of the hole, twitching, his left hand over his shoulder as if he was trying to pat himself on the back. Pappy managed to find two open spaces for his feet as he fell and landed in a crouch straddling the other man’s torso.
KC had been hit, all right. The bright orange of fresh autoseal showed where a bullet had cut through his back on an angle and eventually penetrated somewhere in the vicinity of his right shoulder blade. Another, more worrisome spot of orange showed on the back of his helmet. It was less angled than the one on his back, indicating it had gone in at a steeper angle.
Steep enough, and traveling fast enough, to penetrate KC’s skull? Because if it had, the man was in serious trouble.
Pappy took a deep breath. First things first. Yanking open his emergency kit, he pulled out a set of patches and carefully spread them out over the two tears. The med readout jack was on the front of KC’s suit, momentarily out of reach. Pappy double-checked both patches, then leaned forward and pressed his helmet against KC’s. “Can you hear me?” he called.
“Yeah,” KC’s voice came back, distant and tinny. “How’s it look back there?”
“Stable,” Pappy said. “How about in there? Are you bleeding?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t checked.”
Pappy blinked. “Say again?”
“Of course I’m damn bleeding,” KC bit out. “I’ve got a bullet in my back, you idiot. Hurts like hell.”
“Okay, hang on.” Digging another comm cable from his kit, Pappy plugged them together. “Can you hear me better now?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“I’m here, too,” Morgan added. “How does he look?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Pappy said. “What about our friends out there?”
“I emptied most of my first magazine at them,” Morgan said. “They stopped shooting, so I did, too.”
“Are they coming toward us?”
“No, they’re still sticking close to the Dunsland,” she said. “The four who went inside are back, though, and all six are working on the wheels again.”
So the Ueys still hadn’t gotten the axles unsnarled. That should buy them at least a little more time. “Keep watching,” he said. “KC, we’re going to roll you up onto your left side—nice and easy—and get a look at your med readout.”
“Sure,” KC said. “You know, I might have popped a painkiller. I don’t really remember.”
“If you don’t remember, you probably did,” Pappy said. The side effects of the painkillers they packed into Loonie suits were well known and just a bit spooky. “I’ll check. Okay; nice and easy.”
“I think my head might be bleeding, too,” KC continued. Already the pain was fading from his voice and being replaced by a sort of dreaminess. “I’ve got some blood dripping on my faceplate.”
“Got it,” Pappy said, wincing. Dripping was probably okay, at least for the short term. Gushing or pouring would be very, very bad. “Just relax. I’ll do this.” Between the lower gravity and the inherent padding effects of the suit itself, he got KC on his side with a minimum of effort on his part and only a few vague comments of discomfort on KC’s.
SAS doctrine trained you to be prepared for the worst. In this case, fortunately, it wasn’t as bad as Pappy had feared. The med display indicated a small-caliber bullet lodged below KC’s right shoulder blade and a shallow furrow across the back of his head. Neither was immediately life threatening, but both needed attention.
“Pappy?” Morgan called hesitantly. “How is he?”
“He’ll be okay,” Pappy assured her, falling back on the standard low-information answer for when you didn’t want people to worry. KC’s comm cable back to Hadley Dome was hanging down the back of the foxhole, over the catapult. Pappy plugged it into his suit and cut KC and Morgan out of the circuit. “Eagle Four to Hadley,” he called. “We have a man down; repeat, man down. We need that MASH truck, stat.”
There was no answer. “Hadley, this is Eagle Four,” he repeated, louder this time. “Hadley, please respond.”
“This is Hadley Control,” a harried voice came back. “Who is this?”
“Eagle Four,” Pappy said. “Where the hell were you?”
“Sorry, Eagle, sorry,” the other said, sounding even more harried. “Lot of stuff happening. I was just—I’m running the whole periphery comm. All six Eagles.”
A cold feeling settled in on the back of Pappy’s neck. “Are there other attacks going on? Where?”
“No, no, no other attacks,” the controller said hastily. “Someone spotted a drone, and there was a big discussion on whether we should shoot it down.”
“You didn’t, I hope,” Pappy said. The drone had probably been sent for the express purpose of drawing fire from Hadley’s defenses so the Ueys could see exactly what they were facing. As a general rule, the longer an enemy could be kept guessing, the better.
“No, no,” the controller said. “It just took a while to decide.”
“Yeah,” Pappy said through clenched teeth. Decision gridlock was bad enough among trained and experienced military people. Throwing complete amateurs into the mix just exacerbated the problem.
But he’d better get used to it. Aside from a few ex-military like Pappy himself, amateurs were all the Loonies had.
“If you’ve got that sorted out, we have a man down,” he growled. A burst of gunfire spattered on the ground around the foxhole, and he crouched a little lower, giving KC a quick look to make sure he hadn’t taken another ricochet. “Two bullet injuries, one of them a headshot. Get that MASH truck rolling.”
“Oh, God,” the controller gasped. “Who got—I mean how bad—?”
“Bad enough that we need the MASH truck,” Pappy cut him off impatiently. This clown put the most garrulous SAS controller to complete and utter shame. “Transfer me to the truck and I’ll give them the details.”
“I can do that,” the controller said. “What about the Uey tank? Devereux said there was a Dunsland 406 rigged out as a tank?”
“Yeah, and we’re working on it,” Pappy said. “Get the truck moving so I can get off the comm and work on it some more.”
“It’s not disabled?”
Pappy glared at the mountains hiding Hadley Dome from sight. What the hell was this? “No, it’s not disabled. Does that matter?”
“Oh, God,” the controller muttered. “I’m so sorry, Eagle Four. I can’t send the truck until the Dunsland’s been disabled.”
Pappy felt his mouth drop open. “What?”
“Orders,” the controller said, sounding completely miserable now. “Command says we can’t send the truck when there’s a chance it’ll be destroyed. It’s the only one we’ve got. We can’t afford to lose it.”
Pappy took a deep breath. Strategically, he could see, it made sense. Assets, balance, and costs were all part of military analysis, and in the long run a fully equipped rolling medi
cal facility was far more valuable than a single soldier’s life.
But KC was part of his team, damn it. He was Pappy’s responsibility, and there was no way in hell the man was going to slowly bleed out just because someone sitting in a climate-controlled office had put together a spreadsheet. “Fine,” he ground out. “Just get it warmed up and the crew inside. I’ll call you when it’s safe for them to come out in the sunshine.”
He yanked out the cable without waiting for a response and linked KC and Morgan back in. “Okay, they’re coming,” he said. “How you holding up, KC?”
“Okay,” KC said, with the muddled tone that showed the painkillers were going full force. “Listen, I don’t think . . . I’m still getting drips running down my neck. You sure the press-patch is working?”
Pappy winced. The suits had an inner layer that was supposed to swell up against broken bones or sprained joints, immobilizing them long enough for a trip to the nearest dome and a proper med facility. But whether the system could put the necessary pressure in a small enough spot to stop a bleeder was a big unknown.
And the helmets didn’t have that, at least not above neck level. The graze on KC’s skull was going to keep bleeding until they could get him out of that suit and onto a treatment table.
Which left him two options. He could disable the Dunsland so the rice-counters in Hadley would send the MASH truck, or he could carry KC back to the dome on his own.
He lifted his head cautiously to eyeball level. And whichever one he picked, he needed to do it fast. If the enthusiastic action by the Dunsland’s front wheels was any indication, they were getting close to unsnarling the monofil. Any minute now the vehicle would be on its way again, with nothing to stop it except him and Morgan.
He frowned. The tank had come in right beside Waffle Ridge, as a guard against flank attack. It had been brought to its forced halt about twenty meters along the ridge, too far for a sneak attack from the rear even if most of the Ueys were working at the front.
But KC had called Waffle a cross-eye. Pappy hadn’t known the name was used for that particular ridge, but he had heard the term before. Maybe. “KC, why did you call Waffle Ridge the cross-eye?” he asked.
Battle Luna Page 4