The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

Crossing at an upstream ford wasn’t a real option now that the Solace forces knew the location of Task Force Huber. By the time the Slammers could grind seven kilometers through forest and rough terrain, the enemy would’ve flown in at least a platoon of infantry. The availability of aircars here on Plattner’s World meant that light forces could be shifted very quickly; light forces with buzzbombs and 2-cm powerguns were quite sufficient to turn a truckload of artillery ammunition into an explosion that’d clear everything in a half-klick radius.

The withdrawal would look real, though; a maneuver forced by desperation on Slammers who had to cross the river and who’d failed to shoot their way through at their first attempt. The Solace commander would certainly have sent a report and request for support back to his superiors, but he’d also be looking for revenge. The 1st Cavalry Squadron would follow the retreating Slammers— cautiously, because the Militiamen had learned how dangerous the combat cars could be—in hopes of closing the door behind them when other Solace troops had blocked the way forward.

Of course for Huber’s plan to work, the Solace commander had to know what the Slammers appeared to be doing.

“All Highball units,” Huber said. “When enemy scouts appear, shoot to miss, I repeat, miss them. We want the wogs to know that we’ve cut and run. Six out.”

His helmet buzzed with a series of callsigns followed by “Roger.” The ball was in the Solace court. Huber could only hope his opposite number would act sooner rather than later; which was a pretty fair likelihood, given the way he’d responded to the initial exchange.

The artillery vehicles were taking longer to get turned around than they would’ve done if this had been a real change of plan, but the delays and seeming clumsiness were perfectly believable. The hogs were bloody awkward under the best conditions, and the ammunition haulers rarely operated very far off a road. The maintenance vehicle was larger and heavier still, but its driver was used to maneuvering anywhere a combat vehicle could go—and become disabled.

Huber brought up the C&C display again to check the location of his vehicles. “Padova,” Huber ordered, “get us moving but not fast.”

The X-Ray portion of the task force was half a klick south and west of the combat cars. The last hog in line wasn’t moving yet, but it would be before Fencing Master closed up. The forest fire was getting serious enough to pose a danger, especially to Lieutenant Messeman’s cars at the end of the line.

Padova eased Fencing Master into motion, picking a line close to the crest. The fire was bloody serious, but more so downslope where Solace bolts had flung most of the flaming debris.

Huber looked at his gunners again. Learoyd’s body armor lay on the ammo boxes at the back of the compartment. Deseau’d sliced off Learoyd’s sleeve with his belt knife and was covering the shoulder with bright pink SpraySeal, a combination of replacement skin with antiseptic and topical anesthetic. Learoyd tried to watch, but because of the angle his eyes couldn’t both focus on something so close.

“Bert’s all right!” Frenchie said over the intake noise. He gestured with the can of SpraySeal. “Make a fist, Bert! Show him!”

Learoyd obediently clenched his right fist. His thumb didn’t double over the way it should have. Frowning, he bent it into place with his left hand.

“A chunk of Flame Farter spattered him,” Deseau explained. “It was still a bit hot, but Bert’s just fine. A little bad luck is all.”

Learoyd opened his hand again. This time the thumb worked on its own, pretty well. The molten iridium had hit mostly on the back of his clamshell, but some splashed his upper arm where nothing but a tunic sleeve protected the flesh.

Frenchie needed to believe Learoyd wasn’t seriously injured. Learoyd being who he was, that was probably true: another man who’d been slammed by a quarter-kilo of liquid metal might well have gone into shock, but apart from stiffness and the fact his shoulder was swelling, Learoyd seemed to be about what he always was.

“Learoyd,” Huber asked. He nodded toward the clamshell behind him. “Can you get your armor back on over that?”

“I guess,” Learoyd said. He worked his fist again; the thumb still didn’t want to close. Doubtfully he went on, “Frenchie, will you help me?”

“Sure, Bert, sure!” Deseau said, his voice as brittle as chipped glass.

He snatched up the armor, holding the halves apart for Learoyd to fit his torso into. The fabric covering the right shoulder flare had been melted down to the ceramic core; in its place was a wash of rainbow-hued iridium, finally cool after flying from Flame Farter’s hull to strike Learoyd thirty meters away.

“Good,” said Huber as he turned deliberately back to the C&C display. “Because we’ve still got work to do today, and I want you dressed for it.”