The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

A tribarrel across the perimeter snarled a short burst. Huber jerked his head around, following the line of fire to a flash in the distant sky.

“Highball, Fox Two-six,” Lieutenant Messeman reported. “Air defense splashed an aircar, that’s all. Out.”

Probably civilians who hadn’t gotten the word that a Slammers task force had driven into the heart of their country. Huber’d lost count of the number of aircars they’d shot down on this run; thirty-odd, he thought, but poppers always washed the past out of his mind. He needed the stimulant a lot more than he needed to remember what was over and done with, that was for sure.

The tracked excavator whined thunderously as it dug in the second of the six hogs. The note of its cutting head dopplered up and down, its speed depending on the depth of the cut and the number of rocks in the soil.

The task force was carrying minimal supplies, so the excavator didn’t have plasticizer to add to the earth it spewed in an arc forward of the cut. The berm would still stop small arms and shell fragments. If Battery Alpha needed more than that, the Colonel had lost his gamble and the troopers of Task Force Huber were probably dead meat.

Lieutenant Basingstoke, half a dozen of his people, and three techs from the recovery vehicle, stood beside the hog whose starboard fans had cut out twice during the run. Sergeant Tranter had joined them. He wasn’t in Maintenance anymore, but neither was he a man to ignore a problem he could help with just because it’d stopped being his job.

Huber looked westward. Lights were on in the spaceport seven klicks away, backlighting the smooth hillcrest between it and Task Force Huber.

He could imagine the panic at Port Plattner, military and civilians reacting to the unexpected threat in as many ways as there were officials involved. They’d be trying to black out the facilities, not that it would make much difference to the Slammers’ optics, but they hadn’t yet succeeded. The port was designed to be illuminated for round-the-clock ship landings. Nobody’d planned for what to do when a hostile armored regiment drove a thousand kilometers to attack from all sides.

The sky continued to darken. Huber always felt particularly lonely at night; in daytime he could pretend almost any landscape was a part of Nieuw Friesland that he just hadn’t seen before, but the stars were inescapably alien.

Grinning wryly at himself, he said, “Frenchie, hold the fort till I’m back. I’m going to talk to the redlegs.”

Another thought struck him and he said, “Fox Two-six, this is Six. Join me and Rocker One-six. Out.”

He lifted himself from the fighting compartment as Messeman responded with a laconic, “Roger.”

The cutting head hummed to idle as the excavator backed up the ramp from the gun position it’d just dug. Waddling like a bulldog, it followed the sergeant from the engineer section as he walked backward to guide it to the next pit. A hog drove into the just-completed gun position and shut down its fans. The hull was below the original surface level, and the howitzer’s barrel slanted up at twenty degrees to clear the berm.

Huber nodded to the munitions trucks loaded with 200-mm rockets. He said to Lieutenant Basingstoke, “I hope the engineers have time to dig those in too, Lieutenant. After watching what happened to the Firelords when their ammo started going off.”

“If we begin firing at maximum rate …” Basingstoke said. He was a tall, hollow-cheeked man. His pale blond hair made him look older than he was, but Huber suspected he’d never really been young. “We’ll expend all the ammunition we’ve carried in less than ten minutes. No doubt that will reduce the risk.”

He smiled like a skull. Huber smiled back when he realized that the artillery officer had made a joke.

Lieutenant Messeman trotted over, looking back toward his cars and speaking into his commo helmet on the F-2 frequency. He turned and glared at Huber, not really angry but the sort of little man who generally sounded as though he was.

“Any word on when we’ll be moving?” he demanded. “We are moving, aren’t we? We’re not going to have to nursemaid the artillery while the rest of the Regiment attacks?”

Basingstoke stiffened. Before he could speak—and they were all tired, but Blood and Martyrs, didn’t Messeman have any sense at all?—Huber snapped, “We’re going to leave the two combat cars which I determine to be sufficient for air defense, Lieutenant. That’s one from each platoon. Personally, I expect to be thankful for all the artillery support we can get when we attack.”

Messeman grimaced but shrugged. “Yeah, I’ll leave Two-four. The patch we put on the plenum chamber after the breakout’s starting to crack. They can use the time to weld it properly.”

“Seven kilometers,” Basingstoke said, glancing to the west. The crest showed up more sharply against the port lighting as the sky darkened. “That’s closer to the target than I care to be, but—”

He gave the other officers another skull smile.