by David Drake
"What's going on?" the reporter asked Gale. "Why are we in the, the clear?"
In only a few hours, Suilin had gotten so used to the forest canopy that he felt naked under the open sky. Both moons were visible, though wisps of haze blotted many of the stars. He didn't suppose the leaves really provided much protection—but, like his childhood bedcovers, they'd served to keep away the boogeymen of his imagination.
The veteran gestured toward the horizon dominated by a long ridge twenty kilometers away. "Air attack," he said. "Or arty.While we're movin'it's okay,but clumpin' all together like this, we could get our clock scleaned. If we see it comin', we're slick, we shoot it down. But with powerguns, if a leaf gets in the way, the bolt don't touch the incoming shell it's s'posed t' get, does it?"
"The Consies don't have air . . .?" Suilin began, but he broke the statement off on a rising inflection.
Gale grinned viciously. "Right," he said. "Bet on that and kiss yer ass goodbye."
He glanced at the combat car which had just pulled up beside them and grounded. "Not," he added, "like we're playin' it safe as is."
Cooter clambered aboard the grounded car. Its sides were scratched, like those of all the vehicles, but the words Daisy Belle could be read on the upper curve of the armorplate.
A cartoon figure had been drawn beside the name, but it would have been hard to make out even under better lighting. A bullet had struck in the center of the drawing, splashing the paint away without cratering the armor. A second bullet had left a semicircle of lead on the coaming.
There was only one mercenary standing erect in the fighting compartment to greet Cooter.
"Wisht we had a better field that way," Gale mused aloud, nodding toward the crags that lurched up to the immediate north of the bald, cutting off vision in that direction. "Still, with the panzers—" a second tank had joined Blue Two and the third was anaudible presence "—it oughta be okay.Whatever hardware does best, them big fuckers does best."
Suilin climbed out of the fighting compartment and jumped to the ground. He staggered when he found himself on footing that didn't vibrate. Despite the weight of his armor, the reporter mounted the rear slope of Daisy Belle without difficulty. He'd learned where the steps in the armor were—
And he was no longer entering an alien environment.
Cooter was examining the right forearm of the standing crewman. The trooper's sleeve had been torn away. The bandage across the muscles was brilliantly white in the moonlight except for the dots of blood on opposite sides.
He must have bandaged himself, because the other two crewmen lay on the floor of the fighting compartment—one dead, the other breathing but comatose.
"I'm okay," the wounded man said sullenly.
"Sure you are, Titelbaum," Cooter replied. "Tootsie One-five," he continued, keying his helmet. "This is Tootsie Three. Tommy, send one a'your boys—send Chalkin—to One-six. Over."
"I kin handle it!" Titelbaum insisted as the lieutenant listened to the reply.
"One-five," Cooter said in response to a complaint Suilin couldn't hear. "I'd like to be in bed with a hooker. Get Chalkin over here, right? I need 'im to take over. Three out."
"I kin—" "You got one hand," Cooter snapped. "Just shut it off, okay?"
"I'm left—"
"You're a bloody liar." Cooter looked at Suilin, balanced on the edge of the armor, for the first time. "Good. Gimme a hand with McGwire. We'll sling her to the skirts and get a little more space for Chalkin."
Suilin nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.
"Here, take the top," Cooter said. He reached beneath McGwire's shoulders and lifted the corpse with surprising gentleness.
McGwire had been a small woman with sharp features and a fine shimmer of blonde hair. Her head was bare. A bullet had entered beneath her right mastoid at an upward slant that lifted the commo helmet when it exited with a splash of brains.
McGwire's flesh was still warm. Suilin kept his face rigid as his hands took the weight from Cooter.
"Titelbaum," the lieutenant said, "where's your—oh."
The wounded crewman was already offering a flat dispenser of cargo tape. Cooter thrust it into a pocket and grasped the corpse by the boots.
"Okay, turtle," he said as he raised his leg over the side coaming—careful not to step on the comatose soldier on the floor of the compartment. "Easy now. We'll fasten her to the tarp tie-downs."
Cooter paused for a moment on the edge, using a tribarrel to support his elbow. Then he swung his other leg clear and slid from the bulge of the skirts to the ground without jerking or dropping his burden.
Suilin managed to get down with his end also.It was a difficult job,even though he had proper steps for his feet.
Gear—stakes, wire mesh, bedding, and the Lord knew what all else—was fastened along the sides of all the combat cars. Cooter spun a few centimeters of tape into a loop and reached behind a footlocker to hook the loop to the hull. He took two turns around McGwire's ankles before snugging them tight to the same tie-down.
A trooper carrying a submachine-gun and a bandolier of ammunition jogged up to Daisy Belle,glancing around warily at the vehicles which snorted and shifted across the bald. "This One-six?" he demanded. "Oh, hi, Coot."
"Yeah,try 'n keep Titelbaum trackin', will you?"the lieutenant said."He's takin' it pretty hard, you know?"
"Aw, cop," the newcomer muttered, looking past Suilin. "Nandi bought it? Aw, cop."
"Foran's not in great shape neither, but he'll be okay," Cooter said.
The lieutenant's big, capable fingers wrapped tape quickly around McGwire's shoulders.
The corpse leaked on Suilin's hands and wrist. The reporter's face didn't move except for a slight flaring of his nostrils.
Chalkin climbed into the fighting compartment.The barrel of his submachinegun rang against the armor. "Dreamer," he said. "None of us'll be okay unless some fairy godmother shows up real quick."
"Okay, let's get back," Cooter said. He touched the reporter's shoulder, turned him. "Dunno how long Junebug's gonna stay here."
He glanced up at the moons. "No longer 'n she has to, I curst well hope."
Suilin found he had a voice. "It gets easier from here?" he asked.
"Naw, but it gets over," the big man said as he waved Suilin ahead of him at the steps of their vehicle.
Suilin paused, looking at the hull beneath the tribarrel he served. He hadn't had a good look at the cartoon painted on the sides of the combat car before. Above Flamethrower in crude Gothic letters, a wyvern writhed so that its tail faced forward. Jets of blue fire spouted from both nostrils, and the creature farted a third flame as well.
He wondered whether a bullet would blast away the grinning drawing an instant before another round lifted the top of Dick Suilin's head.
"It gets over," Cooter mused aloud. "One way or the other."
"Sir, are we s'posed to be watchin' this?" Simkins murmured through the intercom link. The map sliding across the main turret screen was reproduced in miniature on one of the driver's displays as well.
"Junebug didn't put a bloody lock on it, did she?"Ortnahme grunted."Besides, we got all the data the drone dumped ourselfs."
But the men on Herman's Whore didn't know what the Task Force commander was going to do with the recce data; and therefore, what she was going to do with them.
Warrant Leader Ortnahme was pretty sure Captain Ranson didn't realize Herman's Whore was echoing the displays from Blue Three; but as he'd told Simkins,she hadn't thrown the mechanical toggle that would've prevented them from borrowing the signals.
And hell, it was their asses too!
"Sir," said Simkins, "where 're we?"
"We're off-screen, kid," Ortnahme replied, just as the image rotated eight degrees from Grid North to place as much as possible of the Santine River on the display at one time. The estuary was on the right edge of the screen.
Symbols flashed at a dozen points—bridges, ferries; fords if there'd been a
ny, which there weren't, not this far down the Santine's course.
The image jerked leftward under June Ranson's control in the nameless tank. More symbols, but not so very many more; and none of 'em a bloody bit of good until you'd gone 300 kays in the wrong bloody direction . . . .
"Which way are we going to go, sir?" the technician asked.
The display lurched violently back to the southward.The image jumped as Ran-son shrank the map scale, focusing tightly on la Reole. The numeral "I" overlay the main bridge in the center of the town. The symbol was flashing yellow.
"Which bloody way do you think we're gonna go?" Ortnahme snarled. "You think we're pushin' babycarts? There's only one tank-capable bridge left on the Santine till you've gone all the way north t' bloody bumfuck! And that bridge's about to fall into the river by itself, it looks!"
"W-warrant Leader Ortnahme? I'm sorry, sir."
Blood 'n martyrs.
It musta been lonely, closed up in the driver's compartment.
The Lord knew it was lonely back here in the turret.Wonder if the background whisper of a voice singing in Tagalog came through the intercom circuit?
"S'okay, kid," Ortnahme muttered. "Look, it's just—ridin' on air don't mean we're light, you see? There's still a hundred seventy tonnes t' support, even if the air cushion spreads it out as good as you can. And there's not a bloody lotta bridges that won't go flat with that much weight on 'em."
Ortnahme stared grimly at the screens. Besides la Reole, there were two "I" designators—bridges of unlimited capacity—across the lower Santine, as well as four Category II bridges that might do in a pinch. Updated information from the drone had colored all six of those symbols red—destroyed.
"'Specially with the Consies blowing every curst thing up these coupla days," he added.
"Isee,sir,"the technician said with the nervous warmth of a puppy who's been petted after being kicked. "So we're going through la Reole?"
Ortnahme stared glumly at the screen. The bridge designators weren't the only updated symbols the reconnaissance drone had painted on the map from the Slammers' database.
"Well, kid," the warrant leader said, "there's some problems with that, too . . . ."
"Tootsie Six to Slammer Six," June Ranson said, loading the cartridge that would be transmitted to Firebase Purple in a precisely calculated burst. "Absolute priority."
Even if you got your dick half into her, Colonel, you need to hear this now.
"The only tank-crossing point on the lower Santine is la Reole, which is in friendly hands but is encircled by dug-in hostiles. The bridge is damaged besides. The forces at my disposal are not sufficient to overwhelm the opposition, nor is it survivable to penetrate the encirclement and proceed to the bridge with the bulk of the hostile forces still in play behind us."
She paused, though the transmission would compress the hesitation out of existence. "Unless you can give us some support, Colonel, I'm going to have to swing north till the river's fordable. It'll add time." Three days at least. "Maybe two days."
A deep breath, drawn against the unfamiliar, screen-lighted closeness of the tank turret. "Tootsie Six, over."
Would the AI automatically precede the transmission with a map reference so that the colonel could respond?
"Slug the transmission with our coordinates and execute,"she ordered the unit as she stared bleakly at the holographic map filling her main screen.
Nothing else was working out the way she wanted. Why should the tank's artificial intelligence have the right default?
"Tootsie Three, this is Six," she said aloud. "You got One-six sorted out, Cooter?"
It might be minutes before her own message went out, and the wait for Hammer's response would be at least that long again. The heavens had their own program . . . .
"Tootsie Six,roger,"her second-in-command replied,panting slightly."I gave Chalkin the blower. Mc—"
The transmitting circuit zeeped, pulsing Ranson's message skyward in a tight packet which would bounce from the ionized track that a meteor had just streaked in the upper atmosphere.
Meteorites, invisible to human eyes during daytime, burned across the sky every few seconds. It was just a matter of waiting for the track which would give the signal the narrowest, least interceptive path to the desired recipient . . . .
"—Gwire bought it and Foran's not a lot better, but there's no damage to the car. Over."
"Tootsie Three, how are the mechanicals holding—"
The inward workings of the console beneath Screen Three gave a satisfied chuckle; its amber Stand-by light flashed green.
That quick.
"Cooter," Ranson said, "forget—no—" she threw a toggle "—listen in."
Staring at the screen—though she knew the transmission would be voice only—she said, "Play burst."
Despite the nature of the transmission, the voice was as harshly clear as if the man speaking were stuffed into the turret with his task force commander. For intelligibility, the AI expanded the bytes of transmitted information with sound patterns from its database. If the actual voice wasn't on record, the AI created a synthesis that attempted to match sex, age, and even accent.
In this case, the voice of Colonel Alois Hammer was readily available for comparison with the burst transmission.
"Slammer Six to Tootsie Six," the colonel rasped. "Absolute priority. You must not, I say again, must not, delay. I believe we can provide limited artillery support for you when you break through at la Reole. If that isn't sufficient, I'm ordering you to detach your tank element and proceed with your combat cars by the quickest route feasible to the accomplishment of your mission. I repeat, I order you to carry on with combat cars alone if you can't cross your tanks at la Reole. Over."
Over indeed.
"Send target overlay," June Ranson said aloud. Her index finger traced across the main screen the symbols of Consie positions facing la Reole. "Execute."
Artillery support? Had Hammer sent down a flying column including a hog or two, or was he expecting them to risk their lives—and mission—on Yokel tubes crewed by nervous draftees?
The transmitter squealed again.
She didn't like being inside a tank. The view was potentially better in every respect than what her eyes and helmet visor could provide from Warmonger's deck, but it was all a simulation . . . . "What do you think, Lieutenant Cooter?" Ranson said, as though she were testing him for promotion.
"Junebug," the lieutenant's worried voice replied, "let's run the gauntlet at la Reole, even with the bridge damaged. Trying t' bust what they got at Kohang without the panzers, that'll be our butts sure."
So, Lieutenant . . . You'd commit your forces on a vague suggestion of artillery support—when you know that the enemy is in bunkers, with heavy weapons already targeted on the route your vehicles must take from the point you penetrate the encirclement?
Ranson slapped blindly to awaken herself, wincing with pleasure and a rush of warmth when her fingers rapped something hard. Her skin was flushed.
"Right," she said—aloud, alert. "Let's see what kind of artillery we're talking about."
She looked at the blank relay screen. "Tootsie Six to Hammer Six," No need for priority now. "I and my XO judge the Blue Element to be necessary for the successful completion of our mission. Transmit details of proposed artillery support. Over."
Ranson rubbed her eyes. "Execute," she ordered the AI.
"Blue Two to Tootsie Six," her headset said.
She should've involved Ortnahme—and Sparrow, he was Blue Element Leader—in the planning. She had to think like a task force commander, not a grading officer . . . .
"Junebug, if the friendlies can lay some sorta surface covering on the bloody water,"the warrant leader was saying, "agricultural film on a wood frame,that'd do, just enough to spread the effect, we can—"
"Negative, Blue Two," Ranson interrupted. "This is a river, not a pond. The current'd disrupt any covering they could cobble together, even if the Consies we
ren't shelling. I don't want you learning to swim. Over."
"Tootsie Six," grunted Ortnahme: twice her age and in a parallel—though noncommand—pay grade. "That bloody bridge has major structural damage. I don't want to learn to dive bloody tanks from twenty meters in the air, neither. Blue Two out."
If you want it safe, Blue Two, you're in the wrong line of work tonight.
Chuckle; green light."Play burst."
"Slammer Six to Tootsie Six. There's an operable hog at Camp Progress with nineteen rounds in storage. Using extended-range boosters, it can cover la Reole. One of the transit-company staff is ex-artillery; he's putting together a crew. By the time you need some bunkers hit, the tube'll be ready to do it."
Zip from the console, as the AI replaced the pause which the burst compression had edited out.
"Speed is absolutely essential. If you don't get to Kohang within the next six hours, we may as well all have stayed home. Over."
"Tootsie Six to Slammer Six," Ranson said with textbook precision. She could feel her soul merging with that of the nameless tank, viewing the world through its sensors and considering her data in an electronic balance."Task Force Ranson will proceed in accordance with the situation as it develops. We will transmit further data if a fire mission is required. Tootsie Six, out. Execute."
She was the officer on-site. She would make the final decision. And if Colonel Hammer didn't like it, what was he going to do? Put her in command of a suicide mission?
"Tootsie Six,"said her headset,"this is Blue Two. The hog's operable,all right. The trouble's in the turret-traversing mechanism, and that won't matter for a few rounds to a single point. But I dunno about the bloody crew. Over."
"Six,Three,"Cooter's voice responded."Chief Lavel's solidas they come.He'll handle the fire control, and the rest—that's just lift 'n carry, right? Getting the shells on the conveyor? Nothin' even a newbie with a room-temperature IQ's going t' screw up. Over."
She would make the final decision.
"All Tootsie elements," June Ranson heard her voice ordering calmly. Her touch shrank the map's scale; then her index finger traced the course to la Reole on the screen.