The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

“We’re on our way, out,” the sergeant responded. As he spoke, icons on Ruthven’s display showed the jeeps sprinting to the northernmost howitzer; the sound of their fans burred faintly through the open hatches. The big gun wasn’t far from where Wegelin’s squad was to begin with, but he obviously wanted them all to be able to jump into the jeeps as soon as they’d set up the burst.

“Unit,” Ruthven said. He placed his right index finger on the terrain map image of the firebase wall, exporting the image to all his troopers. “Adjust the previous order. The car and jeeps will be leaving the firebase here. I don’t know what the shells are going to do …”

One possibility was that they’d blast the existing tangle into something worse, so that the skimmers couldn’t get over or through either one. It was still the best choice on offer.

“ …and if you want to follow me through what I hope’ll be a gap, that’s fine. But don’t get in the way, troopers, this car’s a pig. We’re going to be a full honk, and we won’t be able to dodge. Questions, over?”

Nobody spoke, but three green icons blipped onto the top of the display. Via, they’re pros, they’re the best platoon in the bloody regiment, they really are….

“Six, we got the tube ready!” Sergeant Wegelin said as his icon lit also. “Five rounds, HE, and I’ve programmed her to traverse right three mils at each round. We’re ready, over!”

The Royalist howitzers had their own power supplies to adjust elevation and traverse; they could even crawl across terrain by themselves, though very slowly. The northern weapon was now live, a bright image on Ruthven’s display and a whine through the hatch as its pumps pressurized the hydraulic system.

“Fire Central, this is Echo One-six,” Ruthven said, calling the Regiment’s artillery controller but distributing the exchange to his troopers on an output-only channel. “Request Fire Order One …”

Targeting the rebels approaching from the northeast. They were coming uphill by now. That plus the stumps and broken rocks of the roughly cleared terrain had slowed them.

“ …HE, repeat HE only, we’re too close for firecracker rounds, time of impact fifty-five, repeat five-five seconds from …”

His index finger tapped a marker into the transmission.

“ …now, over.”

“Roger, Echo One-six,” replied a voice barely identifiable as female through the tight compression. She was so calm she sounded bored. Then, “On the way, out.”

“Echo One-Four-six,” Ruthven said. I probably sound bored too. “This is Six. Take the wall down in three-five, I repeat three-five, seconds. Break. Unit, wait for our hogs, don’t get hasty. Then its time to kick ass, troopers, out!”

The command car’s fans were howling. The vehicle slid forward; forty tonnes accelerates slowly, so Melisant was getting an early start. They’ll hear us, but screw’em. They’ll hear more than our fans real soon.

Ruthven started to close the back ramp but Melisant had already taken care of that. He went up through the roof hatch and took the tribarrel’s grips in his hands.

There were a lot of reasons to stay down in the body. Communications with E/1 and Central were better inside; he could operate the gun just as well from the console and had a better display than his visor gave him; and the vehicle’s armor, though light, might save him from shrapnel or a bullet that’d otherwise rob the platoon of its commander. There wasn’t a trooper in E/1 who’d think their El-Tee was a coward if he stayed in the compartment.

But Ruthven himself’d worry that he was a coward in the dark silences before dawn, especially if he survived and some of his troopers didn’t. And somebody was going to die. That was as sure as sunrise, even if E/1 got luckier than any veteran expected.

The long-barreled 120-mm howitzer belched a bottle-shaped yellow flash toward the perimeter wall; companion flares spewed out and back from both sides through the muzzle brake’s baffles. The tube recoiled and the blast slapped Ruthven. The commo helmet’s active sound cancellation saved his hearing, but the shockwave pushed him against the hatch ring. Even at this distance, unburned powder grains speckled his throat and bare hands.

The wall erupted, leaking the shellburst’s red flash through the treetrunks it blew apart. Royalist shanties flattened, flung outward in a cone spreading from the howitzer. A huge dust cloud rose from the shock-pummeled compound.

The command car hit the ground, plowing a track through the hard soil. The steel skirt rang, scattering sparks when it hit embedded stones as the vehicle bucked and pitched.

Either the shockwave had startled Melisant into chopping her throttles, or she’d realized it’d be a disaster to get in front of the howitzer while it was still firing. The Regiment used rocket howitzers rather than tube artillery. She probably hadn’t expected the muzzle blast of a long-range gun to be so punishing.