The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

“—I’ve been glad to have the combat cars’ company for as long as possible, and I realize that means following you to your attack positions.”

Tranter crawled out of an access hatch in the hog’s plenum chamber. He was a big, red-haired man who moved so gracefully that you generally forgot that his right leg was a biomechanical replacement for the one severed when a tank fell off a jack.

“Got it, Lieutenant!” he called cheerfully to Basingstoke. “They pinched a cable when they replaced your Starboard Three, so when the nacelles’re canted hard right you get a short. The wrenches’ll have it rerouted in ten minutes.”

“Three-eight’ll be staying here with the hogs, Sergeant,” Huber said, looking over his shoulder. The combat cars faced outward around the artillery vehicles. The circuit was too open for defense against serious ground attack but admirably suited to stop incoming shells and possible Solace infiltrators. If the Waldheim Dragoons and the scattering of Militiamen and other mercenaries in Port Plattner mounted an attack before the Regiment was ready to strike, the cars’ sensor suites would give Huber sufficient warning to change his dispositions.

“Roger,” Tranter said, nodding. “Ah, El-Tee? Can I swap out Chisum on Three-eight for Stoddard on my car? Stoddard pukes every time he takes a popper, so he’s pretty washed out after this run.”

“Right, the cars here’ll be in air defense mode unless a lot of wheels fall off,” Huber said, frowning to hear that Stoddard couldn’t take stimulants. That didn’t handicap a trooper quite as badly as blindness would, but it wasn’t something a platoon leader wanted to hear about a useful man. “Want me to …?”

“I’ll tell him,” Tranter said, throwing Huber a brilliant smile again as he strode off to inform Chisum and Gabinus, Three-eight’s commander. Tranter wore a slip-over shoe on his right foot to raise it to the height of the boot on his left, giving his leg movements an unbalanced look.

The excavator started on a fifth gun pit. Messeman watched a hog slide into the one just completed with the delicacy required by tight quarters. He said, “Ah, Six? Will we be getting a view of the target before we go in?”

“What I’ve been told,” Huber said, “is that they’ll launch a commo and observation constellation just before we drop the hammer. They’re estimating that the new satellites will survive two minutes, certainly no more than five. That’s why they’re saving it till everything’s ready.”

Messeman sighed. “Sure, makes sense,” he said. “I like to tell my people what we’re getting into, that’s all.”

“Tell them there’s nobody on the planet as good as they are, Lieutenant,” Huber said. His glance took in Lieutenant Basingstoke as well. “We proved that getting here. Tell them one more push and we’ll be able to stand down.”

Messeman and Basingstoke nodded agreement; Huber gave them a thumbs-up and headed back to Fencing Master.

It was true, as far as it went: one push and a stand-down.

If they survived.

And until the next time.

Automatic weapons had been firing from the port area at intervals ever since sunset three hours ago. Occasional tracers ricocheted high enough to be seen over the hills. Less often, a tribarrel flickered across the cloud bases like distant cyan lightning. That’d be another task force splashing an aircar or something equally insignificant …except for the poor bastards on the receiving end.

The alert signal at the upper left corner of Huber’s faceshield was the first message he’d gotten from Central since the fire mission before they’d reached the Solace Highlands. He let out his breath in a gasp.

There might not have been a Central anymore. Base Alpha might have fallen and the Solace forces begun mopping up the Slammers task force by task force, bringing to bear as much weight as they needed to crush each hard nut. Huber’d kept his fear below the surface of his mind, but it’d been there nonetheless.

“All units, prepare to receive orders and target information,” said a voice as emotionless as the surf on a rocky shore. “Don’t get ahead of your start times, and once you commit don’t, I repeat do not, stop shooting until you’re told to. Regiment One out.”

The data dump started at once, progressing for thirty seconds instead of concluding instantaneously. Satellite reconnaissance was updating the information at the same time those satellites transmitted it to the Regiment’s scattered elements. Port Plattner, an oval five kilometers by three, expanded on the Command and Control display. There’d been six warehouse complexes spaced about the perimeter when the satellites shut down thirty-six hours before; now there was a seventh beside the huge starship on northwest edge, twelve large temporary buildings with more under construction.

“Regiment One? That’s Major Steuben,” Deseau muttered, unusually worried for him. “Is he in fucking charge now?”