The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

A battalion of UC militia held the portion of the Benjamin defenses a klick to F-3’s southwest. From there scores of automatic carbines snarled unrestrainedly. The electromagnetic weapons used by all the Outer States fired with a sharper, more spiteful sound than chemical propellants; the fusillade sounded like a pack of Chihuahuas trying to pull down an elephant. Occasionally a ricochet bounced skyward, a tiny red spark among the gathering stars.

“What’ve they got to shoot at?” asked Padova from the driver’s compartment. Rita Padova had proved solid when it came down to cases, but she didn’t like twiddling her thumbs and waiting for the green light. “Did somebody jump the gun, d’ye think?”

“They’re nervous, they’re shooting at shadows,” Huber said. “Keep the channel clear, trooper.”

He frowned to hear himself. If he hadn’t been wound too tight also, he wouldn’t have jumped on Padova that way. With careful calm, Huber went on, “Wait for it, troopers, because it ought to be happening right about—”

The sky flickered soundlessly to the northwest: not heat lightning but a 20-cm bolt from one of the tanks holding high ground at Wanchese, thirty kilometers from Benjamin. A moment later there was an even fainter shimmer from far to the east. The panzers were shooting Solace reconnaissance and communication satellites out of orbit. Until now the warring parties hadn’t touched the satellites, a mutual decision to allow the enemy benefits that friendly forces were unwilling to surrender.

The Slammers had just changed the rules. The war was no longer between Solace and the Outer States but rather between Hammer’s Slammers and the rest of the planet. If the disruption from Solace’s certain retaliation caused problems for the UC, that was too bloody bad. To pull this off, the Slammers had to hide what they were doing for as long as possible.

An instant after the big powerguns fired, the rocket howitzers of Battery Alpha cut loose with three rounds per tube from their position near Central Repair in the heart of Benjamin. Backblast reflected briefly orange from wispy clouds in mid-sky before the bright sparks of rocket exhaust pierced them and vanished in the direction of Simpliche.

“Blue element,” Huber said, “the batteries in Jonesburg and Simpliche’ll be scratching our backs in about eighty seconds. You’ve all got the plan, you all know your jobs. In and out, shake ’em up but don’t stick around, then reform on at grid Yankee Tango Fourfour-three, Two-one-four where the Red element will be waiting.”

Red element was Messeman with F-2 and the artillery. The guns couldn’t move till they’d fired the salvo that would rip the Solace units which threatened Simpliche.

Besides the Slammers’ Battery Alpha, there were ten mercenary batteries in Benjamin. It would’ve been simpler to delegate the preparatory barrage to the others so that Battery Alpha could move instantly, but there was the risk the orders would be intercepted—or ignored.

Central chose to add a minute and a half delay to the Red element rather than chance much worse problems. Huber’s combat cars would be delayed much longer than that while they shot up the firebase that anchored the Solace forces facing Benjamin.

“On the word,” Huber said, “we’ll—”

The sky to the east and west popped minusculely. If Huber had been looking in just the right direction, he might have seen tiny red flashes as bursting charges opened cargo shells several kilometers short of their targets. Calliopes, multi-barreled powerguns, began to raven from the Solace positions. They directed their cyan lightning toward the sub-munitions incoming from both Jonesburg and Simpliche.

The initial shells were packed with jammers—chaff and active transmitters across the electro-optical spectrum. The second and third salvos burst much closer, spewing thousands of anti-personnel bomblets with contact fuzes and a time backup to explode duds three minutes after they left the cargo shell.

“Blue element, execute!” Huber ordered, feeling Fencing Master lift beneath him as Padova anticipated the order by an eyelash.

The six combat cars reversed out of the semi-circular berms protecting them from direct fire and advanced through the open woodland in line abreast. Solace troops weren’t in contact with the Benjamin defenses anywhere that the Slammers stiffened the line. Hostiles couldn’t conceal themselves from the Regiment’s sensors, and anybody who could be seen vanished in a fireball in the time it took a trooper to squeeze the thumb trigger of his tribarrel.

Nevertheless Learoyd fired as Fencing Master rounded its fighting position, his blue-green bolts raking trees and leaf-litter forty meters from the car. Flames blazed yellow-orange from a shattered treetrunk. If anybody else had shot, Huber would’ve thought they were jumpy; Learoyd was as unlikely to be jumpy as he was to start lecturing on quantum mechanics.