The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

“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.”