Are you mad, van Oosten? demanded the gunman who had earlier threatened Barthes sergeant.
Are you mad, Kruse? the mayor shouted back without trying to hide his fury. Dye doubt what those tanks would do to Haacin? And do you doubt this butcher his back was to Pritchard but there was no doubt as to whom the mayor meantwould use them on us? Perhaps tomorrow we could have.
There was motion at the far edge of the crowd, near the corner of a building. Margritte, watching the vision blocks within, called a warning. Pritchard reached for his panic barRob Jenne was traversing the tribarrel. All three of them were too late. The muzzle flash was red and it expanded in Pritchards eyes as a hammer blow smashed him in the middle of the forehead.
The bullets impact heaved the tanker up and backwards. His shattered helmet flew off into the night. The unyielding hatch coaming caught him in the small of the back, arching his torso over it as if he were being broken on the wheel. Pritchards eyes flared with sheets of light. As reaction flung him forward again, he realized he was hearing the reports of Jennes powergun and that some of the hellish flashes were real.
If the tribarrels discharges were less brilliant than that of the main gun, then they were more than a hundred times as close to the civilians. The burst snapped within a meter of one bystander, an old man who stumbled backwards into a wall. His mouth and staring eyes were three circles of empty terror. Jenne fired seven rounds. Every charge but one struck the sniper or the building he sheltered against. Powdered concrete sprayed from the wall. The snipers body spun backwards, chest gobbled away by the bolts. His right arm still gripped the musket he had fired at Pritchard. The arm had been flung alone onto the snowy pavement. The electric bite of ozone hung in the air with the ghostly afterimages of the shots. The dead mans clothes were burning, tiny orange flames that rippled into smoke an inch from their bases.
Jennes big left hand was wrapped in the fabric of Pritchards jacket, holding the dazed officer upright. Theres another rule you play by, the sergeant roared to the crowd. You shoot at Hammers Slammers and you get your balls kicked between your ears. Sure as God, boys; sure as death. Jennes right hand swung the muzzles of his weapon across the faces of the civilians. Now, load the bleeding trucks like the captain said, heroes.
For a brief moment, nothing moved but the threatening powergun. Then a civilian turned and hefted a heavy crate back aboard the truck from which he had just taken it. Empty-handed, the colonist began to sidle away from the vehicleand from the deadly tribarrel. One by one the other villagers reloaded the hijacked cargo, the guns and ammunition they had hoped would save them in the cataclysm they awaited. One by one they took the blower chiefs unspoken leave to return to their houses. One who did not leave was sobbing out her grief over the mangled body of the sniper. None of her neighbors had gone to her side. They could all appreciatenowwhat it would have meant if that first shot had led to a general firefight instead of Jennes selective response.
Rob, help me get him inside, Pritchard heard Margritte say.
Pritchard braced himself with both hands and leaned away from his sergeants supporting arm. No, Im all right, he croaked. His vision was clear enough, but the landscape was flashing bright and dim with varicolored light.
The side hatch of the turret clanked. Margritte was beside her captain. She had stripped off her cold weather gear in the belly of the tank and wore only her khaki uniform. Get back inside there, Pritchard muttered. Its not safe. He was afraid of falling if he raised a hand to fend her away. He felt an injector prick the swelling flesh over his cheekbones. The flashing colors died away though Pritchards ears began to ring.
They carried some into the nearest building, the non-com from Barthes Company was saying. He spoke in Dutch, having sleep-trained in the language during the transit to Kobold just as Hammers men had in French.
Get it, Jenne ordered the civilians still near the trucks. Three of them were already scurrying toward the house the merc had indicated. They were back in moments, carrying the last of the arms chests.
Pritchard surveyed the scene. The cargo had been reloaded, except for the few spilled rounds winking from the pavement. Van Oosten and the furious Kruse were the only villagers still in sight. All right, Pritchard said to the truck drivers, get aboard and get moving. And come back by way of Bitzen, not here. Ill arrange an escort for you.
The French non-com winked, grinned, and shouted a quick order to his men. The infantrymen stepped aside silently to pass the truckers. The French mercenaries mounted their vehicles and kicked them to life. Their fans whined and the trucks lifted, sending snow crystals dancing. With gathering speed, they slid westward along the forest-rimmed highway.
Jenne shook his head at the departing trucks, then stiffened as his helmet spat a message. Captain, he said, we got company coming.
Pritchard grunted. His own radio helmet had been smashed by the bullet, and his implant would only relay messages on the band to which it had been verbally keyed most recently. Margritte, start switching for me, he said. His slender commo tech was already slipping back inside through the side hatch. Pritchards blood raced with the chemicals Margritte had shot into it. His eyes and mind worked perfectly, though all his thoughts seemed to have razor edges on them.
Use mine, Jenne said, trying to hand the captain his helmet.
Ive got the implant, Pritchard said. He started to shake his head and regretted the motion instantly. That and Margrittes worth a helmet any day.
Its a whole battalion, Jenne explained quietly, his eyes scanning the Bever Road down which Command Central had warned that Barthes troops were coming. All but the artillerythats back in Dimo, but itll range here easy enough. Brought in anti-tank battery and a couple calliopes, though.
Slide us up ahead of Michael First, Pritchard ordered his driver. As The Plow shuddered, then spun on its axis, the captain dropped his seat into the turret to use the vision blocks. He heard Jennes seat whirr down beside him and the cupola hatch snick closed. In front of Pritchards knees, pale in the instrument lights, Margritte DiManzo sat still and open-eyed at her communications console.
Little friendlies, Pritchard called through his loudspeakers to the ten infantrymen, find yourselves a quiet alley and hope nothing happens. The Lord help you if you fire a shot without me ordering it. The Lord help us all, Pritchard thought to himself.
Ahead of the command vehicle, the beetle shapes of First Platoon began to shift position. Michael First, Pritchard ordered sharply, get back as you were. Were not going to engage Barthe, were going to meet him. Maybe.
Kowie slid them alongside, then a little forward of the point vehicle of the defensive lozenge. They set down. All of the tanks were buttoned up, save for the hatch over Pritchards head. The central vision block was a meter by 30 cm panel. It could be set for anything from a 360° view of the tanks surroundings to a one-to-one image of an object a kilometer away. Pritchard focused and ran the gain to ten magnifications, then thirty. At the higher power, motion curling along the snow-smoothed grainfields between Haacin and its mine resolved into men. Barthes troops were clad in sooty-white coveralls and battle armor. The leading elements were hunched low on the meager platforms of their skimmers. Magnification and the augmented light made the skittering images grainy, but the tankers practiced eye caught the tubes of rocket launchers clipped to every one of the skimmers. The skirmish line swelled at two points where self-propelled guns were strung like beads on the cord of men: anti-tank weapons, 50 mm powerguns firing high-intensity charges. They were supposed to be able to burn through the heaviest armor. Barthes boys had come loaded for bear; oh yes. They thought they knew just what they were going up against. Well, the Slammers werent going to show them they were wrong. Tonight.
Running lights, everybody, Pritchard ordered. Then, taking a deep breath, he touched the lift on his seat and raised himself head and shoulders back into the chill night air. There was a hand light clipped to Pritchards jacket. He snapped it on, aiming the beam down onto the turret top so that the burnished metal splashed diffused radiance up over him. It bathed his torso and face plainly for the oncoming infantry. Through the open hatch, Pritchard could hear Rob cursing. Just possibly Margritte was mumbling a prayer.
Batteries at Dimo and Harfleur in Sector One have received fire orders and are waiting for a signal to execute, the implant grated. If Barthe opens fire, Command Central will not, repeat, negative, use Michael First or Michael One to knock down the shells. Your guns will be clear for action, Michael One.
Pritchard grinned starkly. His face would not have been pleasant even if livid bruises were not covering almost all of it. The Slammers central fire direction computer used radar and satellite reconnaissance to track shells in flight. Then the computer took control of any of the Regiments vehicle-mounted powerguns and swung them onto the target. Centrals message notified Pritchard that he would have full control of his weapons at all times, while guns tens or hundreds of kilometers away kept his force clear of artillery fire.
Margritte had blocked most of the commo traffic, Pritchard realized. She had let through only this message that was crucial to what they were about to do. A good commo tech; a very good person indeed.
The skirmish line grounded. The nearest infantrymen were within fifty meters of the tanks and their fellows spread off into the night like lethal wings. Barthes men rolled off their skimmers and lay prone. Pritchard began to relax when he noticed that their rocket launchers were still aboard the skimmers. The anti-tank weapons were in instant reach, but at least they were not being leveled for an immediate salvo. Barthe didnt want to fight the Slammers. His targets were the Dutch civilians, just as Mayor van Oosten had suggested.
An air cushion jeep with a driver and two officers aboard drew close. It hissed slowly through the line of infantry, then stopped nearly touching the command vehicles bow armor. One of the officers dismounted. He was a tall man who was probably very thin when he was not wearing insulated coveralls and battle armor. He raised his face to Pritchard atop the high curve of the blower, sweeping up his reflective face shield as he did so. He was Lt. Col. Benoit, commander of the French mercenaries in Sector Two; a clean-shaven man with sharp features and a splash of gray hair displaced across his forehead by his helmet. Benoit grinned and waved at the muzzle of the 200 mm powergun pointed at him. Nobody had ever said Barthes chief subordinate was a coward.
Pritchard climbed out of the turret to the deck, then slid down the bow slope to the ground. Benoit was several inches taller than the tanker, with a force of personality which was daunting in a way that height alone could never be. It didnt matter to Pritchard. He worked with tanks and with Col. Hammer; nothing else was going to face down a man who was accustomed to those.
Sgt. Major Oberlie reported how well andfirmly you handled their little affair, Captain, Benoit said, extending his hand to Pritchard. Ill admit that I was a little concerned that I would have to rescue my men myself.
Hammers Slammers can be depended on to keep their contracts, the tanker replied, smiling with false warmth. I told these squareheads that any civilian caught with a powergun was going to have to answer to me for it. Then we made sure nobody thinks we were kidding.
Benoit chuckled. Little puffs of vapor spurted from his mouth with the sounds. Youve been sent to the Gröningen Academy, have you not, Capt. Pritchard? the older man asked. You understand that I take an interest in my opposite numbers in this sector.
Pritchard nodded. The Old Man picked me for the two year crash course on Friesland, yeah. Now and again he sends non-coms he wants to promote.
But youre not a Frisian, though you have Frisian military training, the other mercenary continued, nodding to himself. As you know, Captain, promotion in some infantry regiments comes much faster than it does in theSlammers. If you feel a desire to speak to Col. Barthe some time in the future, I assure you this evenings business will not be forgotten.
Just doing my job, Colonel, Pritchard simpered. Did Benoit think a job offer would make a traitor of him? Perhaps. Hammer had bought Barthes plans for very little, considering their military worth. Enforcing the contract, just like youd have done if things were the other way around.
Benoit chuckled again and stepped back aboard his jeep. Until we meet again, Capt. Pritchard, he said. For the moment, I think well just proceed on into Portela. Thats permissible under the contract, of course.
Swing wide around Haacin, will you? Pritchard called back. The folks therere pretty worked up. Nobody wants more trouble, do we?
Benoit nodded. As his jeep lifted, he spoke into his helmet communicator. The skirmish company rose awkwardly and set off in a counterclockwise circuit of Haacin. Behind them, in a column re-formed from their support positions at the base of the tailings heap, came the truck-mounted men of the other three companies. Pritchard stood and watched until the last of them whined past.
Air stirred by the tanks idling fans leaked out under the skirts. The jets formed tiny deltas of the snow which winked as Pritchards feet caused eddy currents. In their cold precision, the tanker recalled Col. Benoits grin.
Command Central, Pritchard said as he climbed his blower, Michael One. Everythings smooth here. Over. Then, Sigma One, this is Michael One. Ill be back as quick as fansll move me, so if you have anything to say we can discuss it then. Pritchard knew that Capt. Riis must have been burning the net up, trying to raise him for a report or to make demands. It wasnt fair to make Margritte hold the bag now that Pritchard himself was free to respond to the sector chief; but neither did the Dunstan tanker have the energy to argue with Riis just at the moment. Already this night hed faced death and Col. Benoit. Riis could wait another ten minutes.