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We all had bullet and shrapnel wounds in non-vital areas, where our Nemourlon was thi
"Fall out for first aid," I ordered. Getting out my medkit, I patched my holes and gulped a keep-going pill. The others did the same. I kept a wary eye out for more trouble, but didn't spot any.
Ski and Schmidt, out of ammo, rearmed themselves with Skoda assault rifles, bandoliers and grenades that the hijackers wouldn't be needing anymore. "Who do you figure these guys were, Sarge?" Ski asked.
Unit patches had been cut off the khaki combat suits. "Mercs. Not a front-line outfit like Falkenberg's-not the way they pulled off this ambush."
"Too bad we didn't keep one alive," Toglog grunted. "We could have gotten him to guide us to his base."
"Mercs have a well-earned rep for stubbor
"My people have ways to make still tongues wag."
"There's a wagging one I'd like to still." I shouldered my Kalashnikov. "Saddle up, grunts! Time to get back in the war! I'm on point-Ski, take the rear!"
"On it, Sarge."
The blizzard started to pick up again. The air was thick with ash, and it stank of sulphur even after filtering. I plodded to the crest of the slope, with the squad strung out behind me. Then we slipped and slid down the steeper far side into another raw, broken gorge.
As we followed a boiling stream, I dropped back beside Ski and jacked my com line into his helmet.
"Why the private conversation, Sarge?" he asked.
"The hijackers couldn't have known for sure what they were going up against. They have heavy weapons, yet the ambush was strictly infantry."
"So?"
"So the ambushers must have been a ready-reaction force. Since they couldn't handle us, the real hammer should be in place by now, waiting for us."
Ski licked his lips in anticipation. "Up ahead, where the gorge widens into what looks like an old crater floor? Coming out we would be sitting ducks."
I nodded. "If I were the hijacker commander, that's where I'd hit us. So I'm going to take Schmidt and throw a surprise party of my own. You and Toglog keep going like you don't know any better, with lots of com yack. But go slow. When you reach the end of the gorge, take cover until we spring our surprise. Then join the party."
"On it, Sarge."
I had a private yack with Schmidt, while Ski did the same with Toglog. Then Schmidt and I headed for the left wall of the gorge.
It was about eighty meters high and damned steep, but shot with enough cracks and ledges to make climbing possible. We pressed flat against the glossy black igneous rock to keep from being blown off, and an aftershock from the quake almost knocked us off anyway. Even with the pill's boost it was hard going; my glow had spawned a golden haze. Schmidt and I communicated by Marine hand-talk.
We reached the top, a wind-polished plateau that looked like the loneliest spot on Haven. The blizzard and the slick surface made ru
We finally came to the end of the plateau. Dropping flat, we crawled to the edge and peered down through the snow and ash. A half-kilometer circle of chopped-up tundra was surrounded by low mounds; beyond it a row of young volcanoes belched lava, smoke and hellish light. But the scenery didn't interest me nearly as much as the hijacker force deployed around the gorge's mouth.
Forty or so soldiers were dug in, with two mortars and three .50 caliber machine guns among the riflemen. Backing them up were the two APCs they had come in, and a T-680 tank.
I jacked my com into Schmidt's. "I brought you along, because you've had heavy weapons training. Think you can handle the T-680's gun?"
Schmidt smiled thinly. "I have panzer diesel in my blood. But how do you plan to arrange the opportunity? Are we going to surround them?"
"Something like that. Did you have your usual sauerkraut for breakfast?" I shuddered at the thought.
"Of course," he answered, puzzled.
"Good. Give me your suit's fecal bag."
He handed it over, looking even more puzzled. I clipped it to my belt. Unjacking, I ordered, "Move out," in hand-talk.
We crept down the steep slope behind the hijacker force. We were in their fine of sight, but our suits blended well with the snow, and they weren't expecting company from our direction. Nobody seemed to notice us.
Down on the tundra I signed Schmidt his orders. He took cover behind a rock outcrop, and I started crawling toward the T-680. I had learned infiltration in a school where the diploma was continued respiration. I became part of the snow-covered ground: cold, hard and silent. Soon the tank loomed over me like a fortress of duralloy and reactive armor. It had an anti-perso
They must have been, because I reached the shadow between the tracks without eating a shell. The idling engine sounded like a huge carnivore's growling. I hunted along the low duralloy roof, until I found what I was looking for: the environmental air intake. Quickly I squeezed the contents of Schmidt's fecal bag and my own through the grating.
The filter system wasn't designed to cope with shit, and the T-680 wouldn't be on inboard air because it wasn't engaged. The two man crew would be wondering what they had parked over. If they weren't too worried about the opposition, they might-
Yeah. I heard the turret hatch pop, hobnail boots stomping down the treadshield, thudding into the snow. I slid my knife from its sheath, as a pair of khaki-suited legs walked around to the back.
When the hijacker leaned over to take a look, I uncoiled like a striking rattler. The finely honed carbon steel blade cleaved the thin Nemourlon below the hijacker's neck ring, and the throat behind it. Blood from his mouth sprayed over the inside of his helmet. With a bubbling sigh he folded into the snow.
Knife in hand, I retraced his steps and started up the T-680"s flank. I had to get to the hatch before the remaining tanker caught on and buttoned up. I reached the top of the turret, when a slug spranged off the camo-finished duralloy between my legs.
Three hijackers were ru
A slug punched through the Nemourlon, skin and muscle over my right hip. The sharp thrill energized me. I scrambled to the hatch. Three shots rang out from Schmidt's rock, and the hijackers went down. But others weren't far behind. I dove through the last sliver of hatchway.
The interior of the T-680 was dim, cramped, and mostly hard edges that I hit on my way down. A sidearm barked. Slugs bounced off my chest armor, ricocheting around the interior. I landed on something soft: the tanker. I brought my knife up to cut his throat, but wiped it clean and sheathed it instead. One of his own tumbling slugs had taken the back of his head off.
I heard somebody climbing up the outside, and unlimbered my Kalashnikov to welcome him. But it was Schmidt who jumped down from the hatchway. "Button up, Sarge!" he snapped. "Company on my heels!"
Slugs clanged futilely against the T-680's armor, punctuating his warning.
I slid into the driver's seat, while Schmidt climbed back up to the turret. I hadn't played tanker for a long time, but it was like riding a bike. I buttoned the T-680 up. Ignoring the angry banging of rifle butts on the hatch, I took off my helmet. The thick reek of shit and dead meat was like perfume.
"Ready for action?" I yelled over the engine rumbling.
"Ja!" Schmidt had taken his helmet off too.