by David Drake
"Good Lord," Lieutenant Carbury gasped. He leaned forward in amazement for a closer view. Des Grieux shoved Carbury back with as little conscious volition.
H271's artificial intelligence switched its viewpoint to that of a jeep-mounted infantry tribarrel.Six red streaks fanned through the sky above the narrow wedge of vision, a full salvo from a battery of the Slammers' rocket artillery.
Powerguns fired from the hills to the west.Some of Broglie's defensive weapons had retargeted abruptly to help close the sudden gap in the center of the line. That was dangerous, though, since Hammer's other two batteries continued to pound the flanks of the enemy position.
Broglie's powerguns detonated two of the incoming shells into bright flashes and smears of ugly smoke. The help was too little, too late: the other four firecracker rounds popped open at preset altitudes and strewed their deadly cargo widely over the Thunderbolt lines.
For the moments that the anti-personnel bomblets took to fall, nothing seemed to happen. Then white light like burning magnesium erupted over four square kilometers. Hair-fine lengths of glass shrapnel sawed in all directions. The coverage was thin, but the blasts carved apart anyone within a meter of an individual bomblet.
Lieutenant Carbury jumped for the hatch, aiming his right boot at the back of the tank commander's seat but using Des Grieux's shoulder as a step instead. "Remote that feed to my tank now, Sergeant!"the lieutenant shouted as he pulled himself out of H271's cupola.
Des Grieux ignored Carbury and keyed his intercom. Flowers had better be wearing his commo helmet. "Driver!" the veteran snarled. "Get your ass aboard!"
On Screen #3, another salvo of anti-personnel shells howled down onto the Thunderbolt Division's reeling battalions.
Powerguns snapped and blasted at a succession of targets on H271's right-hand screen. For the past several minutes, the real excitement, even for Des Grieux, was on the map display on the other side of the fighting compartment.
The Hashemites and their mercenary allies were getting their clocks cleaned.
The AI's interpretation of data from the battle area cross-hatched all the units of the Thunderbolt Division which were still on the plain. A few minutes of hammering with firecracker rounds had reduced the units by twenty percent of their strength from casualties—
And to something closer to zero combat efficiency because of their total collapse of morale. The battle wasn't over yet, but it was over for those men and women. They retreated northward in disorder, some of them on foot without even their personal weapons. Their only thought was to escape the killing zone of artillery and long-range sniping from the Slammers' powerguns.
Half of the Thunderbolt Division remained as an effective fighting force on the high ground to the east—the original left-flank battalions and the troops which had retreated to their protection under fire. Even those units were demoralized, but they would hold against anything except an all-out attack from the Slammers.
If the mercenary commander surrendered now, while his position was tenable and his employers were still fighting, the Thunderbolt Division would forfeit the performance bond it had posted with the Bonding Authority on Terra. That would end the division as an employable force—and shoot the career of its commander in the nape of the neck.
H271 quivered as its fans spun at idle. The tank was ready to go at a touch on the throttle and pitch controls."Sarge?"Flowers asked over the intercom channel. "Are we gonna move out soon?"
"Kid," Des Grieux said as he watched holographic dots crawling across holographic terrain, "when I want to hear your voice, I'll tell you."
If he hadn't been so concentrated on the display, he would have snarled the words.
The Thunderbolt Division's employers weren't exactly fighting, but neither had they surrendered. The Hashemite Brotherhood was no more of a monolith than were their Sincanmo enemies; and Hashemite troops were concentrated on the plains, where their mobility seemed an advantage. Des Grieux suspected that the Hashemites would have surrendered by now if they'd had enough organization left to manage it.
Broglie's armored elements on what had been the Hashemite right flank, now cut off from friendly forces by the collapse of the center, formed a defensive hedgehog among the sandstone boulders. The terrain gave them an advantage that would translate into prohibitive casualties for anybody trying to drive them out—even the panzers of Colonel Hammer's tank companies. Broglie's Legion wasn't going anywhere.
But Broglie himself had.
Within thirty seconds of the time artillery defense had collapsed in the center of the Hashemite line, four tank destroyers sped from the Legion's strong point to reinforce the Thunderbolt infantry. There was no time to redeploy vehicles already in the line, and Broglie had no proper reserve. These tank destroyers were the Legion's Headquarters/Headquarters Platoon.
The move was as desperate as the situation itself. Des Grieux wasn't surprised to learn Broglie had figured the only possible way out of Colonel Hammer's trap, but it was amazing to see that Broglie had the balls to put himself on the line that way. Des Grieux figured that Broglie obeyed orders because he was too chicken not to . . . .
By using gullies and the rolling terrain,three of the low-slung vehicles managed to get into position. The single loss was a tank destroyer that paused to spike a combat car five kilometers away on the Slammers' right flank. A moment later, the Legion vehicle vanished under the impact of five nearly simultaneous 20cm bolts from Slammers' tanks.
Tribarrels on the roofs of the three surviving tank destroyers ripped effectively at incoming artillery, detonating the cargo shells before they strewed their bomblets over the landscape. The tank destroyers' 15cm main guns were a threat nothing, not even a bow-on tank, could afford to ignore. The leap-frog advance of Slammers' units toward the gap in the enemy center slowed to a lethal game of hide-and-seek.
But it was still too little, too late. The Hashemite and Thunderbolt Division troops were broken and streaming northward. All the tank destroyers could do was act as a rear guard, like Horatius and his two companions.
There was no bridge on their line of retreat, but the only practical route down from the Knifeblade Escarpment was through the Notch. Task Force Kuykendall and tank H271 had that passage sealed, as clever-ass Colonel Luke Broglie would learn within the next half hour.
Des Grieux began to chuckle hoarsely as he watched beads ooze across a background of coherent light. The sound that came from his throat blended well with the increasingly loud mutter of gunfire from south of the Escarpment.
"Shellfish Six to all Oyster and Clam elements," Des Grieux's helmet said.
Des Grieux had ignored the chatter which broke out among the Slammers' vehicles—the combat cars were code named Oyster; the tanks were Clam—as soon as Carbury gave the alarm. He couldn't ignore this summons, because it was the commander of Shellfish—Task Force Kuykendall—speaking over a unit priority channel.
"All blower captains to me at Golf Six-five ASAP. Acknowledge. Over."
This was no bloody time to have all the senior people standing around in a gully, listening to some bitch with lieutenant's pips on her collar!
There were blips of static on Des Grieux's headset. Several commanders used the automatic response set on their consoles instead of replying—protesting—in person.
"Clam Six to Shellfish Six . . ." said Lieutenant Carbury nervously. The tank-platoon commander was not only beneath Kuykendall in the chain of command, he was well aware that she was a ten-year veteran of the Slammers while he had yet to see action. "Suggest we link our vehicles for a virtual council, sir. Over."
"Negative,"Kuykendall snapped."I need to make a point to our employers and allies, here, Clam Six, and they're not in the holographic environment."
She paused,then added in a coldly neutral voice."Break.This means you,too, Slick. Don't push your luck. Shellfish Six out."
Des Grieux cursed under his breath. After a moment, he slid his seat upward and climbed out of the tank. He'd grab
bed a grenade launcher and a bandolier of ammunition at the depot; he carried them in his left hand.
He didn't acknowledge the summons.
Occasional flashes to the south threw the Knifeblade Escarpment into hazy relief, like a cloud bank lighted by a distant storm. Sometimes the wind sounded like human cries.
The gullies at the base of the butte twisted Task Force Kuykendall's position like the guts of a worm. Two combat cars and a tank were placed between H271 and Kuykendall's vehicle, Firewalker, in the rough center of the line. The gaps between the Slammers' units were filled by indigs in family battlegroups.
The restive Sincanmos had let their campfires burn down. The way through the gullies was marked by metal buckets glowing from residual heat. Men in bright, loose garments fingered their personal weapons and watched Des Grieux as he trudged past.
There was a group of fifty or more armed troops—all men except for Kuykendall and one of the tank commanders, and overwhelmingly indigs—gathered at Firewalker when Des Grieux arrived. Kuykendall had switched on the car's running lights with deep yellow filters in place to preserve the night vision of those illuminated.
"Glad you could make it, Slick," Kuykendall said. She perched on cargo slung to the side of her combat car. It was hard to make out Kuykendall's words over the burble of Sincanmo conversation because she spoke without electronic amplification. "I want all of you to hear what I just informed Chief Diabate."
The name of the senior Sincanmo leader in the task force brought a partial hush. Men turned to look at Diabate, white-bearded and more hawk-faced than most of his fellows. He wore a robe printed in an intricate pattern of black/russet/white, over which were slung a 2cm powergun and three silver-mounted knives in a sash.
"Colonel Hammer has ordered us back ten kays," Kuykendall continued. Two crewmen stood at Firewalker's wing tribarrels, but the weapons were aimed toward the Notch. The air of the gathering was amazement, not violence. "So we're moving out in half an hour."
"Don't be bloody crazy!"Des Grieux shouted over the indig babble."You saw what's happening south of the wall."
He pointed the barrel of his grenade launcher toward the Escarpment. The bandolier swung heavily in the same hand."Inside an hour,there'll beten thousand people trying t' get through the Notch, and we're here t' shut the door in their face?"
Sincanmo elders shook their guns in the air and cried approval.
Kuykendall's sharp features pinched tighter. She muttered an order to Firewalker's AI, then—regardless of the Hashemites in the Notch—blared through the combat car's external speakers, "Listen to me, gentlemen!"
Her voice echoed like angry thunder from the face of the butte. Shouting men blinked and looked at her.
"The colonel wants them to run away instead of fighting like cornered rats," Kuykendall went on, speaking normally but continuing to use amplification. "He wants a surrender, not a bloodbath."
"But—" Chief Diabate protested.
"What the colonel orders," Kuykendall said firmly, "I carry out. And I'm in charge of this task force, by order of your own council."
"We know the Hashemites!"Diabate said.This time, Kuykendall let him speak. "If they throw away their guns and flee now, they will find more guns later. Only if we kill them all can we be sure of peace. This is the time to kill them!"
"I've got my orders,"Kuykendall said curtly, "and you've got yours.Slammers elements, saddle up. We move out in twenty . . . seven minutes."
Khaki-uniformed mercenaries turned away,shrugging at the slings and holsters of their personal weapons. Des Grieux did not move for a moment.
"I wanted you to see," Kuykendall continued to the shocked Sincanmo elders. "This isn't a tribal council, this is war and I'm in charge. If you refuse to obey my orders, you're in breach of the contract, not me and Colonel Hammer."
Sincanmos shouted in anger and surprise. Des Grieux strode away from the crowd, muttering commands through his commo helmet to the artificial intelligence in H271. The AI obediently projected a view of the terrain still closer to the base of the mesa onto the left side of Des Grieux's visor.
Flowers waited with his torso out of the driver's hatch."What's the word,Sarge?" he called as Des Grieux stepped around the back of a Sincanmo truck mounted with a cage launcher and a quartet of forty-kilo bombardment rockets.
"We're moving," Des Grieux said. He lifted himself to the deck of his tank. "There's a low spot twenty meters from the base of the butte. I'll give directions on your screen. Park us there."
He clambered up the turret side and thrust his legs through the hatch.
"Ah, Sarge?" Flowers called worriedly. His curved armor hid him from Des Grieux. "Should I take down the cammie film?"
Des Grieux switched to intercom. Screen #1 now showed the terrain in the immediate vicinity of H271. The site Des Grieux had picked was within two hundred meters of the tank's present location.
"It'll bloody come down when you bloody drive through it, won't it?" Des Grieux snarled. He slashed his finger across the topo map, marking the intended route with a glowing line that echoed on the driver's display. "Do it!"
The microns-thick camouflage film was strung,then jolted with high-frequency electricity which caused it to take an optical set in the pattern and colors of the ground underneath it. The film was polarized to pass light impinging on the upper surfaces but to block it from below. The covering was permeable to air as well, though it did impede ventilation somewhat.
H271's fans snorted at increased power, sucking the thin membrane against its stretchers. Sincanmo troops moved closer to their own vehicles, eyeing the 170-tonne tank with concern.
Flowers rotated H271 carefully in its own length, then drove slowly up the back slope of the gully. The nearest twenty-meter length of camouflage film bowed, then flew apart when the stresses exceeded its limits. Gritty soil puffed from beneath the tank's skirts.
"Clam Four, this is Clam Six," said Lieutenant Carbury over the 3d Platoon push. "What's going on there? Over."
Des Grieux closed the cupola hatch above him.This was going to be very tricky. Not placing the shot—he could do that at ten kays—but determining where the shot had to be placed.
H271 lurched as Flowers drove it down into a washout directly at the base of the mesa.Des Grieux let the tank settle as he searched the sandstone face through his gunnery screen.
"This where you want us, Sarge?" Flowers asked.
"Clam Four, this is Shellfish Six. Report! Over."
"Right," said Des Grieux over the intercom. "Shut her down. Is your hatch closed?"
The intake howl dimmed into the sighing note of fans winding down. Iridium clanged forward as Flowers slammed his hatch.
"Yes sir," he said.
Des Grieux fired his main gun. Cyan light filled the world.
The rockface cracked with a sound like the planetary mantle splitting. The shattered cliff slumped forward in chunks ranging in size from several tons to microscopic beads of glass. H271 rang and shuddered as the wave of rubble swept across it, sliding up against the turret.
"Clam Four to Clam Six," Des Grieux said. He didn't try to keep his voice free of the satisfaction he felt at the perfect execution of his plan. "I've had an accidental discharge of my main gun. No injuries, but I'm afraid my tank can't be moved without mebbe a day's work by heavy equipment. Over."
"Slick," said Lieutenant Kuykendall, "you stupid son of a bitch."
She must have expected something like this, because she didn't bother raising her voice.
Kuykendall's right wing gunner worked over the Notch with his tribarrel as Firewalker idled at the base of the butte.
When H271 lighted the night with its main gun, the Hashemites guarding the Notch came to panicked alertness. During the ten minutes since, combat cars fired short bursts to keep enemy heads down while the Slammers pulled out.
This thirty-second slashing was different. The gunner's needless expenditure of ammunition was a way to let out his frustration—at what De
s Grieux had done, or at the fact that the rest of the Slammers were running while Des Grieux and the indigs stayed to fight.
The troopers of Task Force Kuykendall were professional soldiers. If they'd been afraid of a fight, they would have found some other line of work.
Kuykendall squeezed the gunner's biceps, just beneath the shoulder flare of his body armor. The trooper's thumbs came off the butterfly trigger. The weapon's barrel-set continued to rotate for several seconds to aid in cooling.The white-hot iridium muzzles glowed a circle around their common axis.
Trooper Flowers lifted himself into Firewalker's fighting compartment. His personal gear—in a dufflebag; Flowers was too junior to have snagged large-capacity ammo cans to hold his belongings—was slung to the vehicle's side. Combat cars made room for extra personnel more easily than Carbury's remaining tanks could.
Des Grieux braced his feet against the cupola coaming and used his leg muscles to shove at a block of sandstone the size of his torso. Thrust overcame friction. The slab slid across a layer of gravel, then toppled onto H271's back deck.
The upper surfaces were clear enough now that Des Grieux could rotate the turret.
Lieutenant Carbury's Paper Doll was an old tank, frequently repaired. An earlier commander had painted kill rings on the stubby barrel of the main gun. Holographic screens within the fighting compartment illuminated Carbury from below. His fresh, youthful face was out of place peering from the veteran vehicle.
"Sergeant Des Grieux," the lieutenant said. His voice was pitched too high for the tone of command he wished to project. "You're acting like a fool by staying here, and you're disobeying my direct orders."
Carbury spoke directly across the twenty meters between himself and tank H271 instead of using his commo helmet. The hoosh of lift fans idling almost washed his voice away. In another few seconds, minutes at most, Des Grieux would be alone with fate.
The veteran brushed his palms against the front of his jumpsuit. He had to be careful not to rub his hands raw while moving rocks. He'd need delicate control soon, with the opening range at two kays.
