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"Reactors two and three just went offline," Indy called. She unstrapped and headed for the hatch. "I doubt this is going to be a one-woman job."
"We're way down on speed, sir!" Reeves called. He had the throttle all the way open, but the SheVa was barely moving. "Under ten miles an hour!"
"Indy," the commander called over the intercom. "Tell me we can do better than this! Those landers are going to overrun us in about fifteen minutes at this rate."
"Not until I find out what went, sir," the warrant officer called. She slid down the third ladder and grabbed a geiger counter as she sprinted, occasionally being knocked from side to side, towards the reactor room. "We just lost half our power; this is as fast as this thing will go."
"Damn, damn, damn," he muttered. "Pruitt, you have the con."
"What?" the gu
"I'm headed to the reactor room," the commander said. "I think you can ID these things just fine."
"Roger, sir," the gu
"There's one by Fulchertown," the driver said, checking his map. "But it will mean ru
"You afraid of getting 'em stuck in our treads?" the gu
"No . . . it's just that . . ." Schmoo looked up and over his shoulder to where the gu
"Anybody that's still here deserves to be run over."
* * *
Mitchell waved a hand in front of his face as he went through the door to the reactor room; smoke and steam were pouring out and the air reeked of ozone. "Indy!"
"Over here, sir," the warrant called from the left side of the room. The room was dominated by the four turbine generators; the smaller reactors were barely noticeable cradled along the sides. Mitchell's background was in Abrams power packs, big jet turbine engines that drove the tanks at speeds upwards of sixty miles per hour. But the power contained in this room would provide electricity to a city of a hundred thousand people. It was sobering to think that all this power could barely get the SheVa up to twenty miles per hour on a flat surface.
"What'cha got?" he asked. "And are we hot?"
"No, sir," the warrant called back, handing him one end of a heavy duty cable. "The shot missed the reactors and the turbines, thank goodness, or we might as well have gotten in the Abrams and run. It took out a transformer, through, and cut one of the main power circuits so even though there was a backup transformer there wasn't any power for it. The reactor went into shutdown immediately."
"So what are we doing?" the commander asked.
"Well, you're holding a replacement power cable," she said impishly. "I'm getting out a really big wrench. Then we're going to replace the circuit and reboot the reactors."
"How long?"
"Ten minutes, fifteen tops," she answered, heading over to where the turbine's power bars joined in the middle. She applied the wrench to a large nut where the cable came out and then, when it wouldn't break free, pulled the wrench off and hammered on it repeatedly until the melted plastic sealing it flaked off. "Just be glad it didn't hit the reactors."
"Yeah," the commander said with a laugh. "Or the track. I'd hate to have to break track on this thing."
"Oh, it's no trouble at all; you just call up a CONTAC team," the warrant said, breaking the nut free. "There's a reason that there's a battalion in a SheVa repair team. A battalion of engineers and three really big cranes."
Mitchell dropped the end of the cable on the floor and grabbed a stanchion as the SheVa rocked from a blow. "Uh, oh."
"I can get this," Indy said, grunting as she leaned into the wrench. "Get up top, sir."
"You sure?" he asked.
"Go, I can do this in my sleep," she said taking the nut out and pulling out the burnt cable.
As he darted out of the room she sighed and picked up the cable. "For this I went to MIT. . . ."
* * *
"Flying tanks, sir!" Pruitt said as the commander flew out of the hatch. "Four of them. And they're spotting for the landers; tracking says they're all coming this way."
"Shit," Mitchell said, looking in his own screen as the flight of tenaral swooped by for another strafing run. The flying tanks each fired several rounds of plasma fire, but only one or two co
"Doing it, sir," the driver said. "The best I can do is get up along the hills, though; we're kind of a big target."
"Is it just me, or do they seem to be staying at a distance?" Pruitt said as the SheVa rumbled down onto the flat. "Oops. TARGET! Lamprey! Fifteen klicks!"
To get to the third firing point required turning the corner of the mountain. By and large the SheVa's position was still covered by the intervening hills, however, the last movement, slow and glacial as it seemed, had rumbled the SheVa fully out into the open.
Pruitt had been more or less ready for it, or something similar, keeping his gun pointed southward towards the approaching landers. Fortunately the Posleen ships moved at a snaillike pace near the ground and had not gotten significantly closer than in the previous two engagements. Unfortunately, there were more of them in sight.
"CONFIRMED!" Major Mitchell called, slipping into his seat.
"ON THE WAY!" the gu
"Yes!" Mitchell called. "Cat-kill, Pruitt." The detonation of the Lamprey's fuel source had not been as large as the first catastrophic kill, but it was still quite spectacular.
"TARGET!" Pruitt answered. "C-Dec! Fifteen klicks!"
"CONFIRMED!" Mitchell called.
Pruitt fired just as the dodecahedron dropped below the ridgeline. "Miss! The bastards are maneuvering! Is that legal?"
"Fuck me!" Reeves called as the tenaral swept by for another strafe. "They seem to be firing at the rear of the gun, sir!"
"I noticed," the major said with a curse. "The good news is it's the only part that's heavily armored. The bad news is it's the armor on the magazine."
"No wonder they're keeping a safe distance," Pruitt said, sweeping the gun from side to side, looking for targets. "The really good news is that we're nearly out of rounds so if they do penetrate the magazine there won't be as large of a boom." He thought about what he'd just said and shook his head. "Mommy!"
Mitchell keyed for the outside line and called the Screaming Meemie unit. "Whiskey Three-Five this is SheVa Nine; we could use some help, over."
* * *
"What in the fuck is that, ma'am?"
Captain Vickie Chan shielded her eyes against the westering sun and shook her head. "I du
Captain Chan had joined the U.S. Army in 1989 in payment to University of Nebraska Army ROTC. The ROTC had provided the daughter of Fusian immigrants with a scholarship and monthly spending money. So when the Army in its infinite wisdom assigned her to Air Defense Artillery she had put on her soldier suit and wandered into the wilderness.
One fairly successful tour—very few women in ADA made captain in one hitch—had proven to her that a career in the Army was the last thing she wanted. Towards the end of the tour she had looked around at the senior females and determined that there were two types: sluts and battleaxes. She had no desire to be either so she calmly turned in her papers and went back to civvie street.
However, with the coming of the Posleen, she, along with virtually every other human who had ever worn military uniform, received a letter in the mail ordering her to service. Initially she was assigned to an armor unit, but with the need for anti-lander systems and the creation of the initial systems to combat them, a computer had spit out her name near the head of the list. She had ADA background and, at the time she was transferred, was a commander of an armor company. Perfect.