There was a resounding BOOM as a stray shell hit one of the globular fuel tanks a city block east of the street the Devils were on. But rather than explode the way it was supposed to, the shell punched a hole in the 500,000-gallon container, which released a column of pinkish fuel. The high-octane portrenol shot straight out, splashed into the containment area that surrounded the tanks, and a lake began to form.
Meanwhile, as the sloth’s foreman corrected his aim and sent a projectile screaming toward the starport beyond, Tychus was on the comm. “We have to stop that thing before it can destroy the dropships. How ’bout it, Hank? Can you light that bastard up? Over.”
“Roger that,” Harnack replied as he brought his saber to a shuddering halt.
In an attempt to distract the sloth’s foreman and buy time for Harnack, Raynor sent his saber roaring forward, as one of his passengers fired the gauss cannon. The weapon clattered methodically, and sparks of light signaled a series of hits as the spikes punched a line of divots into the sloth’s hull. But to no avail.
The saber passed within ten feet of the sloth’s squared-off bow before entering a skidding turn. But the pass wasn’t enough to prevent the sloth from firing another shell at the starport. And this one scored a direct hit.
There was an eye-searing flash of light as dropship number three exploded and chunks of the ship’s fuselage soared high into the air, where they seemed to pause momentarily before cartwheeling down. “The sonofabitch has the range now,” Tychus said grimly. “This ain’t good.”
And it wasn’t good. A fact not lost on Harnack, who was lumbering forward. Would the sloth crew notice him as he came in from the side? Maybe … but Harnack figured they were focused on the starport as he approached the mountain of metal.
That was when Kydd saw that fuel was pouring out of the containment area and onto the street. Either the ditch was too shallow or someone had left one of the flood control gates open. Not that it made much difference since the result was the same. “Harnack!” Kydd shouted. “Don’t fire!”
But Harnack was within range by then and completely unaware of the fuel that was flowing his way. There was the familiar click as he pulled the trigger and the igniter produced a spark. That was followed by a loud whump as a gout of flame shot forward to blister the sloth’s paint job.
That got the crew’s attention, and one of the treads stopped as the other continued to clank forward. So Harnack sent a tongue of fire in under the monster, because that’s where it was most vulnerable. As the machine began to turn, he was forced to do likewise or be cut down by the sloth’s forward-firing slugthrowers.
Kydd opened his mouth to yell again, but the river of fuel was lapping around Harnack’s boots by then, and the result was inevitable. There was a thump as the high-octane liquid caught fire, wrapping both Harnack and the sloth in an inferno of red-orange flames.
Harnack tried to run but didn’t get far. The scream was a long, lung-emptying sound that Kydd knew he would never forget as the rifle came up, and time slowed. Even though it seemed like an eternity, less than two seconds elapsed as the crosshairs settled over their target and the firing pin dropped. The butt kicked Kydd’s shoulder, the slug hit Harnack in the head, and most of his brains flew sideways.
Then like a wax figure exposed to heat, Harnack began to melt, the sloth rolled over him, and the tanks on his back exploded. The result was a stupendous boom as the sixty-ton monster was transformed into a thousand pieces of metal confetti. It hissed as it fell into a lake of fire.
Kydd felt a lump form in the back of his throat as images of Harnack flickered through his mind. There were lots of them. Harnack laughing manically as he rolled around on the grass in front of the police station. Harnack attacking the rippers at Fort Howe. And most of all, Harnack standing next to the fallen goliath, just below the repository in Polk’s Pride. He’d been like a brother. A crazy, “I don’t give a shit” brother who had been brave to a fault. And he’d gone out the way he would want to go out. With a loud bang.
Suddenly Kydd knew what to say. Knew what would mean the most to his brother. “That was awesome, Hank… . That was fekking awesome.”
“Sarge!” a voice said over the squad freq. “This is Haster… . Transport three took a direct hit… . What the hell is going on? A civilian truck pulled up outside and I caught a glimpse of Colonel Vanderspool.”
“They must have captured it and circled around the east side of the fuel tanks,” Raynor observed grimly.
“Raise the ramp,” Tychus ordered tersely. “And don’t allow anyone to enter. Not Vanderspool and not Cassidy… . Do you scan me? Over.”
“Five by five, Sarge. Over.”
“Good. We’re on the way. Over.”
There were only two sabers by that time. The one Raynor was driving, and a second vehicle, with Kydd at the wheel. The third transport was still burning, and a thick finger of black smoke rose to point at the sky as the sabers passed through an open gate. “Be ready, Jim,” Tychus said, as he shoved a fresh magazine into his gauss rifle. “We could be outgunned.”
Raynor could see the flatbed truck by then, as well as the people who were spilling out the back, and knew the situation was serious. He knew Vanderspool would almost certainly destroy the first transport if he had the means to do so and escape in the second. Then, with no one left alive to contradict him, he’d be free to concoct whatever story he chose.
As Raynor brought the saber to a screeching halt, the scene that greeted him was considerably different from what he expected to see. Vanderspool was present all right, as was Doc—but both were prisoners.
Pax’s helmet was missing, a blood-stained bandage was wrapped around his head, and the two rippers standing behind him were in equally bad shape. But the Kel-Morians were vertical, heavily armed, and definitely in control. At some point they had captured Vanderspool and Cassidy, loaded them onto a civilian truck, and circled around behind the storage tanks.
“Hold it right there,” Pax said as Tychus swung his enormous feet out of the saber and stood up. “Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot Colonel Vanderspool in the head.”
Raynor had circled to the front of the saber by that time. Both Raynor and Tychus began to laugh as Vanderspool scowled. The sound was amplified, and boomed over the external speakers. “Be my guest,” Tychus said coldly. “Do us all a favor and blow his fekkin’ head off.”
Pax looked at Tychus, saw the cold determination on his face, and knew the noncom was serious. “Your troops aren’t very loyal, are they?” the Kel-Morian officer said disgustedly. “I should have known.”
Having stopped the saber about five hundred yards away, Kydd was standing next to it, using the hood as a rest for his rifle. From that angle most of Pax’s body was obscured by Vanderspool’s. There was another option, however. Kydd adjusted his aim slightly, his finger took up the last bit of slack, and the rifle fired. Vanderspool’s body jerked spasmodically as the heavy slug smashed through his shoulder and hit the man immediately behind him.
Blood sprayed the area as the bullet tore Pax’s throat out and the other Kel-Morians opened fire. The result was nearly instantaneous as both Tychus and Raynor hosed them down with a hail of gauss spikes.
The enemy soldiers attempted to stand their ground, but one of them fell as Kydd fired on him, and the other staggered drunkenly as the incoming gauss spikes tore through his suit. Then he toppled over backward and skidded for a short distance before coming to a halt.