"One-five," Cooter said in response to a complaint Suilin couldn't hear. "I'd like to be in bed with a hooker. Get Chalkin over here, right? I need 'im to take over. Three out."
"I kin—" "You got one hand," Cooter snapped. "Just shut it off, okay?"
"I'm left—"
"You're a bloody liar." Cooter looked at Suilin, balanced on the edge of the armor, for the first time. "Good. Gimme a hand with McGwire. We'll sling her to the skirts and get a little more space for Chalkin."
Suilin nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.
"Here, take the top," Cooter said. He reached beneath McGwire's shoulders and lifted the corpse with surprising gentleness.
McGwire had been a small woman with sharp features and a fine shimmer of blonde hair. Her head was bare. A bullet had entered beneath her right mastoid at an upward slant that lifted the commo helmet when it exited with a splash of brains.
McGwire's flesh was still warm. Suilin kept his face rigid as his hands took the weight from Cooter.
"Titelbaum," the lieutenant said, "where's your—oh."
The wounded crewman was already offering a flat dispenser of cargo tape. Cooter thrust it into a pocket and grasped the corpse by the boots.
"Okay, turtle," he said as he raised his leg over the side coaming—careful not to step on the comatose soldier on the floor of the compartment. "Easy now. We'll fasten her to the tarp tie-downs."
Cooter paused for a moment on the edge, using a tribarrel to support his elbow. Then he swung his other leg clear and slid from the bulge of the skirts to the ground without jerking or dropping his burden.
Suilin managed to get down with his end also.It was a difficult job,even though he had proper steps for his feet.
Gear—stakes, wire mesh, bedding, and the Lord knew what all else—was fastened along the sides of all the combat cars. Cooter spun a few centimeters of tape into a loop and reached behind a footlocker to hook the loop to the hull. He took two turns around McGwire's ankles before snugging them tight to the same tie-down.
A trooper carrying a submachine-gun and a bandolier of ammunition jogged up to Daisy Belle,glancing around warily at the vehicles which snorted and shifted across the bald. "This One-six?" he demanded. "Oh, hi, Coot."
"Yeah,try 'n keep Titelbaum trackin', will you?"the lieutenant said."He's takin' it pretty hard, you know?"
"Aw, cop," the newcomer muttered, looking past Suilin. "Nandi bought it? Aw, cop."
"Foran's not in great shape neither, but he'll be okay," Cooter said.
The lieutenant's big, capable fingers wrapped tape quickly around McGwire's shoulders.
The corpse leaked on Suilin's hands and wrist. The reporter's face didn't move except for a slight flaring of his nostrils.
Chalkin climbed into the fighting compartment.The barrel of his submachinegun rang against the armor. "Dreamer," he said. "None of us'll be okay unless some fairy godmother shows up real quick."
"Okay, let's get back," Cooter said. He touched the reporter's shoulder, turned him. "Dunno how long Junebug's gonna stay here."
He glanced up at the moons. "No longer 'n she has to, I curst well hope."
Suilin found he had a voice. "It gets easier from here?" he asked.
"Naw, but it gets over," the big man said as he waved Suilin ahead of him at the steps of their vehicle.
Suilin paused, looking at the hull beneath the tribarrel he served. He hadn't had a good look at the cartoon painted on the sides of the combat car before. Above Flamethrower in crude Gothic letters, a wyvern writhed so that its tail faced forward. Jets of blue fire spouted from both nostrils, and the creature farted a third flame as well.
He wondered whether a bullet would blast away the grinning drawing an instant before another round lifted the top of Dick Suilin's head.
"It gets over," Cooter mused aloud. "One way or the other."
"Sir, are we s'posed to be watchin' this?" Simkins murmured through the intercom link. The map sliding across the main turret screen was reproduced in miniature on one of the driver's displays as well.
"Junebug didn't put a bloody lock on it, did she?"Ortnahme grunted."Besides, we got all the data the drone dumped ourselfs."
But the men on Herman's Whore didn't know what the Task Force commander was going to do with the recce data; and therefore, what she was going to do with them.
Warrant Leader Ortnahme was pretty sure Captain Ranson didn't realize Herman's Whore was echoing the displays from Blue Three; but as he'd told Simkins,she hadn't thrown the mechanical toggle that would've prevented them from borrowing the signals.
And hell, it was their asses too!
"Sir," said Simkins, "where 're we?"
"We're off-screen, kid," Ortnahme replied, just as the image rotated eight degrees from Grid North to place as much as possible of the Santine River on the display at one time. The estuary was on the right edge of the screen.
Symbols flashed at a dozen points—bridges, ferries; fords if there'd been any, which there weren't, not this far down the Santine's course.
The image jerked leftward under June Ranson's control in the nameless tank. More symbols, but not so very many more; and none of 'em a bloody bit of good until you'd gone 300 kays in the wrong bloody direction . . . .
"Which way are we going to go, sir?" the technician asked.
The display lurched violently back to the southward.The image jumped as Ran-son shrank the map scale, focusing tightly on la Reole. The numeral "I" overlay the main bridge in the center of the town. The symbol was flashing yellow.
"Which bloody way do you think we're gonna go?" Ortnahme snarled. "You think we're pushin' babycarts? There's only one tank-capable bridge left on the Santine till you've gone all the way north t' bloody bumfuck! And that bridge's about to fall into the river by itself, it looks!"
"W-warrant Leader Ortnahme? I'm sorry, sir."
Blood 'n martyrs.
It musta been lonely, closed up in the driver's compartment.
The Lord knew it was lonely back here in the turret.Wonder if the background whisper of a voice singing in Tagalog came through the intercom circuit?
"S'okay, kid," Ortnahme muttered. "Look, it's just—ridin' on air don't mean we're light, you see? There's still a hundred seventy tonnes t' support, even if the air cushion spreads it out as good as you can. And there's not a bloody lotta bridges that won't go flat with that much weight on 'em."
Ortnahme stared grimly at the screens. Besides la Reole, there were two "I" designators—bridges of unlimited capacity—across the lower Santine, as well as four Category II bridges that might do in a pinch. Updated information from the drone had colored all six of those symbols red—destroyed.
"'Specially with the Consies blowing every curst thing up these coupla days," he added.
"Isee,sir,"the technician said with the nervous warmth of a puppy who's been petted after being kicked. "So we're going through la Reole?"