The Complete Hammer's Slammers: Volume 3

by David Drake

  He swung his legs over the coaming, paused on the bulge of the plenum chamber, and slid to the ground. He almost crumpled under the weight of his clamshell when he landed. Via! he was woozy.

  The troopers in the aircars were loosing the cargo nets over their loads; they looked as tired as Huber and his personnel. The woman with sergeant’s pips on her collar was working one-handed because the other arm was in a sling.

  “Tough run?” Huber asked, sliding out a case of 2-cm ammo for Learoyd, who took it left-handed. There were spare barrels too, thank the Lord and the foresight of somebody back at Central.

  “Tough enough,” she said, not quite curt enough to be called hostile.

  “How are things at Base Alpha?” Huber asked, passing the next case to Padova. He didn’t know who was defending the base with so many of the combat-fit Slammers running north. He was sure it wasn’t a situation anybody was happy about.

  “We’ll worry about fucking Base Alpha,” the sergeant snarled. She met his eyes; she looked like an animal in a trap, desperate and furious. “You worry about your job, all right?”

  “Roger that,” Huber said evenly, taking a case of twelve 2-cm gunbarrels to empty the belly of the car. “Good luck, Sergeant.”

  “Yeah,” the woman said. “Yeah, same to you, Lieutenant.”

  The three dead infantrymen and the incapacitated—three more infantry and Flame Farter’s left wing gunner—had been placed in the aircars. Flame Farter’s driver and commander were ash in the remains of their vehicle.

  The sergeant settled back behind the controls and muttered something on her unit push, the words muffled by circuitry in her commo helmet. Nodding, she and the other drivers brought their fans up to flying speed again.

  “Action Four-two outbound,” crackled her voice through Huber’s commo helmet. The White Mice took off again, their vector fifteen degrees east of the way they’d arrived. Their approach might’ve been tracked, so they weren’t taking a chance on overflying an ambush prepared in the interim.

  “Bitch,” said Padova, who’d been close enough to hear the exchange.

  Huber stepped to Fencing Master and paused before swinging the spare barrels to Deseau waiting on the plenum chamber. The case of fat iridium cylinders was heavy enough in all truth; in Huber’s present shape, it felt as if he were trying to lift a whole combat car.

  “Got it, El-Tee,” Learoyd said, taking the barrels one-handed before Huber had a chance to protest. He shoved them up to his partner in a movement that was closer to shot-putting than weight lifting.

  Huber stretched, then quirked a grin to Padova. “I guess even the White Mice are human,” he said, grinning more broadly. “We all do the best we can. Some days—”

  He held his right arm out straight so that she could see he was trembling with fatigue.

  “—that’s not as good as we’d like.”

  “Mount up, troopers,” Sergeant Tranter ordered. He gave Huber a thumbs-up from Fancy Pants’ fighting compartment. “Fox Three leads on this leg.”

  Padova scrambled down the driver’s hatch. Huber climbed the curve of the skirts and lifted himself into the fighting compartment without Deseau’s offered hand. He seemed to have gotten his second wind.

  As the fans lifted Fencing Master in preparation to resume the march, Deseau said, “Glad they brought the barrels, El-Tee. We were down to two sets after what we replaced after that last fracas. I don’t guess that’s the last shooting we’ll do this operation.”

  “I don’t guess so either, Frenchie,” Huber said. For a moment he tried to visualize the future, but all his mind would let him see was forest and stabbing cyan plasma discharges.

  “Hey El-Tee?” Learoyd said. Huber looked at the diffidently waiting trooper and nodded.

  “What about the panzers, El-Tee?” Learoyd asked. “Aircars can’t carry the barrel for a main gun, and even if they could it takes three hours and the presses on a wrenchmobile to switch barrels on a tank.”

  “I don’t know, Learoyd,” Huber said. Fencing Master reentered the unbroken forest, the second vehicle in the column this leg. “I guess they’ll just make do like the rest of us.”

  Or not, of course; but he didn’t say that aloud.

  The trees in this stretch had thick trunks and wide-spread branches. That made the driving easier, especially now in deep darkness. Of course if a car hit one of them squarely, it wasn’t going to be the tree that was smashed to bits.

  A red bead pulsing twice in the center of Huber’s faceshield gave him a minimal warning before Central crashed the task force net with, “Highball, this is Chaser Three-one. You will halt for an artillery fire mission in figures three-zero seconds. Mission data is being downloaded now. You will resume your march after firing a battery three. Chaser Three-one over.”

  The voice on the other end of the transmission was broken and attenuated to the verge of being inaudible. Central was bouncing the message in micropackets off cosmic ray ionization tracks, the Regiment’s normal expedient on planets where security was the first priority or there weren’t communications satellites. Even so—and despite interference from the foliage overhead, a screen if not a solid ceiling—the transmission would normally have been crisper than this.

  What the hell was going on at Base Alpha?

  But like the A Company sergeant said, it wasn’t Arne Huber’s job to worry about Base Alpha. Nor to ask questions when Central’s orders were brusque because there was no time to give any other kind.

  “Roger, Chaser Three-one,” Huber said. “Highball Six out.”

  “Chaser Three-one out,” the voice said, fading to nothingness in the middle of the final syllable.

  “Highball, this is Six,” Huber said. Deseau had turned to look at him. “Halt at Michael Foxtrot Four-one-six, Five-one-four. Fox elements will provide security while Rocker elements—”

  The artillery.

  “—carry out their fire mission. Break. Rocker One-six, I want to be moving again as soon as possible. Copy? Six over.”

  “Roger, Highball Six,” Lieutenant Basingstoke replied crisply. He had more time in grade as well as more time in the Regiment than Huber. Huber suspected that Basingstoke thought he should’ve been task force commander in Huber’s place, which was just another piece of evidence as to why a redleg lieutenant didn’t have sufficient judgment to command a mobile force. “You don’t want us to reload the gun vehicles before proceeding, then? Rocker One-six over.”

  “Negative!” Huber responded. He bit off the words, “You bloody fool!” but he suspected his tone implied them, which was just fine with him. “Rocker, I don’t want to be halted in enemy-controlled territory an instant longer than we have to be, especially after we’ve been shooting artillery so they know exactly where we are. Six out.”

  Learoyd pulled Fencing Master into the halt location the AI had chosen for them. Huber looked up, frowning. The patches of sky overhead weren’t sufficient for the Automatic Air Defense System to burst incoming shells a safe distance away. So long as the task force kept moving they were probably all right, but now, halted—

  Well, Central knew the score; and anyway, the Regiment wasn’t a democracy. Ours not to reason why . . .

  The hogs swung into position, their turrets rotating and launch tubes rising while the vehicles were still in motion. The ammunition haulers pulled off to either side of the guns. The F-2 combat cars tried to keep outside the scattered trucks, but this wasn’t a defensive position in any sense of the term. The Lord save Highball’s souls if any Solace forces were close enough to take advantage of the situation.

  “Lieutenant?” said Padova, leaning close to shout over the idling fans. “I didn’t think we were going to hear anything from Central on this run. That we were on our own?”

  Huber shrugged. His shoulders ached from the weight of his armor, but that was nothing new. “The operation was pretty spur of the moment, Rita,” he said. “I guess they’re flying it by the seat of their pants, just like we are
.”

  The howitzers fired, rippling with a half-second between discharges so that the shockwaves from the shells didn’t interfere with other rounds in the salvo. The nearest gun was within ten meters of Fencing Master. Huber’s helmet damped the blasts so they didn’t break his eardrums, but the pressure of 200-mm shells tearing skyward squeezed his whole body like loads of sand.

  The hogs weighed forty tonnes apiece, and the steel skirts of their plenum chambers stabilized them better than conventional trails and recoil spades could do. Despite that the big vehicles jounced so hard when they fired that puffs of dirt and leaf litter spurted out of their fan intakes.

  The rounds didn’t reach terminal velocity for seven seconds, but the crack! of each going supersonic stabbed through the deeper, world-filling snarl of the rocket motors. Overhead, branches whipped and shredded leaves swirled in roaring eddies.

  Huber’d wondered how the guns would fire through dense foliage, but that obviously wasn’t a problem. The shells could course correct if they had to, but the disparity between the massive projectiles and the leaves made Huber grimace at the foolishness of his concern.

  The first howitzer launched a second round immediately after Gun Six fired its first; the third followed three seconds later. As the launch tube sank back to its travel position, the hog’s driver began spinning up his fans: they’d been shut down while the gun was firing lest the blades whip into their housings and wreck the nacelle.

  “Highball Six!” Lieutenant Basingstoke said, his voice crackling with the effort of Huber’s commo helmet to make it audible over the thunderous conclusion of the fire mission. “Rocker elements are ready to move. Rock—”

  Gun Six fired its third and final round. The shriek of the shells arching southward seemed like silence after the cacophony of the preceding seconds.

  “—er One-six over.”

  “All Highball units,” Huber said. The whole operation had taken less time than switching drivers; a minute at the outside. “Resume march order. Six out.”

  He grinned wryly. While he didn’t suppose Lieutenant Basingstoke was going to become a bosom buddy, at least he knew his job.

  And because he was thinking that, Huber said, “Rocker One-six, this is Highball Six. It’s a pleasure to serve with real professionals, Lieutenant. Please convey my congratulations to your troopers. Six over.”

  Foghorn slid out of sight among the trees. Learoyd brought Fencing Master up, following thirty meters behind the lead car. That was a greater interval than they’d maintain when the task force had reached a constant speed.

  “Highball Six, this is Rocker One-six,” Basingstoke said. “I’ve passed on your congratulations to my gunners.” After a pause he added, “I’m glad we were able to perform to the standard the infantry and your combat car crews have demonstrated in order to get us this far. Rocker One-six out.”

  Huber looked up at branches whipping past against a dark sky. He grinned faintly. “Thank you, Rocker One-six,” he said. “Six out.”

  He wondered how much farther Task Force Huber was going to get. Who knows? Maybe all the way.

  And then what? Huber added to himself; but that was a problem for another day.

  Huber awakened from a doze. He’d been hunched into the back corner of the fighting compartment, held upright by ammo boxes and a carton of rations. Fields of dark green soybeans rolled to either horizon beyond the iridium walls, punctuated by stretches of native vegetation.

  According to the briefing cubes, Solace was several times as populous as all the Outer States put together. Those people were heavily concentrated in the center of the country around Bezant and Port Plattner, however, with the remainder of the country given over to the collective farms which produced food for the entire planet.

  Huber frowned as he thought about the rations. He’d swallowed a tube of something a little after dawn as they negotiated the foothills of the Solace Highlands, but he’d had nothing since. He didn’t feel hungry but supposed he ought to eat something.

  It was an effort to get anything down because he was so fatigued by the constant vibration. Besides, the poppers made food taste like it’d been scraped from the bottom of a latrine. That wasn’t much of a change from what ration tubes ordinarily tasted like, of course.

  He jolted alert, suddenly aware of why he’d awakened. Padova’d been on duty with the C&C display while he rested. She was trained but she didn’t have the sixth sense for what wasn’t right that’d come with a year or two of combat operations.

  “I’ve got the watch,” Huber said. He took the controller from Padova’s hand as he spoke, lurching upright. She jumped aside, startled and maybe a little snappish at the lack of ceremony. The reaction passed before it got to her tongue, which was just as well.

  As Huber adjusted the display to make explicit what instinct already told him, he said, “Highball, we’re going to have to adjust course to the left by thirty degrees. There’s a monorail line eighteen klicks ahead, and if we continue as planned we’ll be spotted by a train headed southward. We’ll—”

  He stopped because he’d caught the fine overtone to the sensor data, the descant he’d ignored for the moment while he focused on the electronic signature of a six-car train heading south at 120 kph. Task Force Huber could avoid observation from a train at ground level, but—

  “Bloody Hell!” Huber snarled, interrupting himself. “This is going to take a moment, troopers. There’s aircars scouting for the train and they’ll spot us sure!”

  “Six, this is Two-six,” Lieutenant Messeman said on the command channel. “I suggest it’s a troop train and the aircars are escorts. Over.”

  “Roger,” said Huber, because it couldn’t be anything else once Messeman had stated the obvious. He shook his head angrily. He must still be waking up. He couldn’t afford to miss cues; he couldn’t, and the troopers who were his responsibility couldn’t afford him missing them either.

  “Roger,” Huber repeated, but with a note of decision. There was nothing wrong with his tactical appreciation once he got his mind in gear. “Highball, we can’t avoid them so we’ll engage and keep moving. Fox will attack on a company front—”

  That was a bit of an overstatement, given that the Fox elements under Huber’s command were two understrength platoons, but it’d do.

  “—from point Echo Michael Four-two, Six-one. X-Ray elements continue in march order. Fox elements form to the right on Three-six in line abreast with five, I repeat five, meter intervals. Execute! Six out.”

  Padova looked at him wonderingly. It was too bad Learoyd wasn’t on the right gun, but the newbie was going to have to get her feet wet some time. This was probably as safe a place to do it as any.

  “Crew,” Huber said, switching his helmet to intercom. Foghorn was moving up on their right with the other cars of F-3 slanted farther back as they drove through the soybeans to their stations.

  Lieutenant Messeman’s platoon would take longer to join from the middle and rear of the column, but it’d be in line by the time it needed to be. “Frenchie, set our guns to take out the scouts when we’re sure of getting them both.”

  The aircars were keeping station to either side of the track, five hundred meters up and a kilometer ahead of the train. They were looking for trouble on the line rather than scouting more generally, but even so from their altitude they were bound to notice the Slammers’ vehicles.

  Deseau keyed the command into the pad on his tribarrel’s receiver. Instead of executing immediately he said, “You don’t think it’ll warn them, El-Tee?”

  “It’s a train,” Huber snapped. “They’re not going to turn around, they won’t even be able to slow down.”

  Deseau grimaced and pushed execute. Fencing Master’s tribarrels slewed to the right and elevated under the control of the gunnery computer.

  “The C&C box’ll divide our fire so that the whole train’s covered,” Huber continued, deliberately speaking to his whole crew over the intercom rather than embarrassing
Padova by singling her out for the explanation. “We’ll shoot it up on the fly, not because that’ll damage the enemy but—”

  Fencing Master’s tribarrels fired, six-round bursts from the paired wing guns and about ten from Deseau’s as it destroyed an aircar by itself. Padova jumped, instinct telling her that the gun’d gone off by accident. She blushed and scowled when she realized what had happened.

  Above the horizon to the north, a cottony puff bloomed and threw out glittering sparks. The flash of the explosion had been lost in the distance, even to Huber who’d been looking for it.

  “—because if we don’t, we’ll have whatever military force is aboard that train chasing us,” Huber continued, giving no sign that he’d noticed Padova’s mistake. “We’re going to have enough to do worrying about what’s in front without somebody catching us from behind.”

  The gunnery computer returned the tribarrels to their previous alignment. Huber and Deseau touched their grips, swiveling their weapons slightly to make sure that a circuitry glitch hadn’t locked them; Padova quickly copied the veterans. Yeah, she’ll do.

  A column of black smoke twisted skyward near where the white puff had appeared in the sky. The second Solace scout hadn’t blown up in the air, but its wreckage had ignited the brush when it hit the ground.

  “Six, this is Two-six,” Messeman said. “I’ll take my Two-zero car out of central control to cut the rail in front of the train. All right? Over.”

  “Roger, Two-six,” Huber said. He thought Messeman was being overcautious, but that still left seven combat cars to deal with a six-car train.

  Sunlight gleamed on the elevated rail and the line of pylons supporting it across the dark green fields. The train itself wasn’t in sight yet, but at their closing speed it wouldn’t be long. Huber settled behind his gun, staring into the holographic sight picture.

  Fencing Master came over a rise too slight to notice on a contour map but all the difference in the world when you were using lineof-sight weapons. The train, a jointed tube of plastic and light metal, shimmered into view, slung beneath the elevated track.