Galway pressed the reset and the M-7 vanished. "All right, now what about the other men we lost?"
"They were the four backups you'd ordered to that gate. They'd just called in that they heard the rioters when they were hit. I guess they thought the mob was still outside the wall."
"Why?" Galway pounced. "You were monitoring it, weren't you? Why didn't you warn them?"
"Sir—I—" Grazian sounded miserable. "It all happened so fast...."
"So you froze, and four men are dead." Galway's words were harsh, but his anger was quickly changing to apprehension. The blackcollars had the initiative now—as the attacker always did—and his Security forces weren't responding nearly fast enough. They'd trained for this sort of thing, of course, but no one had taken it seriously for years. Could they get organized in the heat of battle? Galway wasn't sure.
One thing he was sure of, though: allowing his men to be tied down defending the Hub was an invitation to disaster. He had to stop the riot, and fast, before the blackcollars pulled whatever else they had planned. "Sergeant, what do we have in the air?"
"All eight spotters are up, coordinating the ground action. The mob's pretty well fragmented now, and each group has at least one stolen weapon. Mobs are starting to form outside the other gates, too, but so far we're holding them back."
And coordination was about all the spotters could do; they lacked the sophisticated firepower for pinpoint attacks that could hit the rioters without tearing up the surrounding neighborhoods. But there were ships on Plinry that could accomplish that. "Call the 'port. I want their patrol boats immediately."
"All six of them?" Grazian sounded doubtful. "That'll leave the 'port undefended."
"They've got their fence, don't they? Besides, clearing out the rioters with those boats won't take long. If they get nervous they can always ask the Ryqril to take a couple of Corsairs up."
"Yes, sir." A pause. "I have the 'port duty officer now; channel three."
Switching his phone, Galway gave the orders.
They came in low over the city: six sleek aircraft, heading in from the north and displacing the stubby Security spotters that moved up to give them room. From his lonely tree-crowned hill two klicks east of the city Trevor Dhonau counted them as they appeared, nodding in satisfaction. Galway had called the 'port patrol boats into the fray a bit sooner than he had expected, but that was all right: Dhonau and Terris Shen, the other Swatter, had been in position for nearly an hour.
Squatting behind the sights of his twin-tube rocket launcher, his game leg stretched awkwardly to the side, the old blackcollar permitted himself a moment of mild regret. It had been so long in coming, this last act of defiance, and he wished he could see it through to the end. But someone had to take Swatter duty, and better him than someone with two good legs. Idunine could keep you alive a long time, but for damaged tissue other treatment was needed—and the collies' refusal to supply that was just one more score that needed settling.
The moment passed, and Dhonau actually smiled as he picked up the trigger grip and thumbed off its safety. All of them had had a price to pay, and if his was to be heavier than the average that was merely a comsquare's duty. Certainly Lathe had done his share without flinching. Dhonau winced inside as he thought of Lathe's lonely vigil as their contact man, the patient wait in that highly visible role for the long-shot contact that had finally happened. He would be a good successor, Dhonau knew. He just hoped there would be enough pieces left after tonight for Lathe to pick up.
Almost time. The patrol boats were settling into position over Capstone, hovering on gravs as they sought the rioters. Dhonau waited until they were nearly stationary, and then gently squeezed the trigger grip.
With a burst of sparks and the sizzle of water dropped on a hot griddle, the tiny surface-to-air missile shot from the leftmost firing tube. Shifting aim, Dhonau fired again.
The result was all Dhonau could have hoped for. A blue-white sun burst dead center on one of the boats, which yawed wildly in dying reflex before plummeting to the ground. A second craft, maneuvering frantically to avoid its flaming companion, backed directly into the path of the second missile. It didn't even have time to fall, but disintegrated instead in midair as a secondary explosion of its fuel and armament momentarily lit up the sky. A third patrol boat swung dangerously near the ground, impelled by the force of the explosion, and was just regaining equilibrium when a missile rose from Shen's position to the southwest, bringing it down for good. It had all happened so quickly that only then did the thunderclaps from the explosions finally reach Dhonau's hill.
The old blackcollar grinned as the sound washed over him. Three down in the first salvo—better than he'd expected. The other three boats were buzzing around like hornets now, seeking their attackers, but Dhonau wasn't particularly worried yet. The boats, though of Ryqril manufacture, were copies of pre-war Terran design, and Dhonau knew that their sensors couldn't simultaneously handle both narrow- and wide-angle detection. Concentrating on the rioters in Capstone, they couldn't possibly have tracked the missile trajectories. A basic problem with stealing someone else's technology, Dhonau reminded himself dryly: the original owner always knew too much about it.
Two of the boats had shifted to a standard search pattern now, the third rising to a high-altitude position where it could watch the whole area. An unimaginative approach, and potentially expensive: it could cost them one of their low-flying boats to locate each Swatter position. Dhonau reloaded his tubes, waiting for the searchers to move closer. But as he watched, one of them broke sharply from its path, swinging in a tight circle off to Dhonau's left. Shen had been spotted.
The other Swatter knew it, too, and two missiles flashed out in quick succession. Both exploded harmlessly in midair, caught by bursts of laser fire.
Dhonau cursed under his breath even as he swung his firing tube around and squeezed the trigger. It would give his position away, but he had no other choice. With both tubes empty, Shen would be a sitting duck for several seconds before he could reload.
The missile arced toward its target—and Dhonau's gut-feeling that the collie crew were essentially rookies was confirmed. Concentrating on Shen's defenseless position, they completely missed the arrow climbing up their exhaust until it was too late. Even then, the pilot tried to escape the inevitable, scooting maybe a hundred meters before the missile caught up with him and ended his flight. Dhonau grimaced with contempt even as he searched the sky for the remaining boats. A blackcollar pilot, seeing death was certain, would have held position and crashed on his enemy.
Suddenly, with a roar, the hilltop erupted with blue flame, and he just managed to snap his eyelids shut before the concentrated laser fire could blind him. The light winked out as fast as it had come, leaving the gentler flame of burning vegetation in its wake. Dhonau lay on the ground where his reflexes had thrown him, feeling his inner flexarmor layer grow hot enough to scorch skin. Opening his eyes, he tried to see around the purple afterimage in front of him. He'd been lucky, he knew; if the attacking boat had stayed overhead instead of making a fast strafing run he'd be dead by now. Even so, his flexarmor wouldn't survive another attack. Rolling over, he gave the sky a quick scan and turned to his rocket launcher.
Not good. The missiles seemed intact, but the thinner metal of the firing tubes had warped slightly in the intense heat. Gritting his teeth, Dhonau opened the breech of the nearest tube and began removing the firing mechanism.