Even a layman could see that the tribarrel's ammunition had chain-fired in its loading tube, vaporizing the weapon, the hatch, and the cupola itself. The warrant leader knew what a layman wouldn't: that when the bloody ammo went, it would've reamed its tubeway as wide as a cow's cunt, seriously weakening the turret forging itself. The whole bloody turret would have to be replaced before Ortnahme would certify this mother as fit for action.
Plus, of course, the fan nacelle. Pray Lord it was the only one gone when he and Simkins got underneath to look.
"No argument from me, snake," Henk Ortnahme said mildly. "I figure you guys earned the right to ride whatever you bloody well please."
Simkins had to keep moving for another half hour or so. Ortnahme nodded to the tankers, then walked on slowly with the technician's hand in his for guidance.
Behind them, Wager painted the last letter of Nameless on the skirt in straggling capitals.
Suzette, Lady Kung, wore neat fatigues and a look of irritation as she glanced over her shoulder toward the commotion by the door.
"Suzi!"Dick Suilin called,past the sergeant major who blocked him and Cooter from the dignitaries milling in the conference room.
His sister's expression shifted through blank amazement to a mixture of love and horror. "Dick!" she cried. "Dick! Oh good Lord!"
She darted toward Suilin with her arms spread, striding fast enough to make her lustrous hair stream back from her shoulderblades.
The sergeant major didn't know what was going on, but he knew enough to get out of the way of the governor's wife. He sprang to attention and repeated in a parade-ground voice what Cooter had told him: "Sir! The representatives of Task Force Ranson."
There were twenty-odd people in the room already, too many for the chairs around the map-strewn table. Most were officers of the National Army. A few civilian advisors looked up from the circle around Governor Kung.
Everyone was in fatigues, but several of the officers wore polished insignia and even medal ribbons.
Suzi hugged her brother fiercely, then gasped before she could suppress the reflex. Suilin had forgotten how he must smell . . . .
"Oh Dick," his sister said. "It's been hard for all of us."
The reporter patted her hand and let her step away.
He pretended that he hadn't seen the look of disgust flash across her face. Couldn't blame her. He'd lived two days in his clothes, stinking of fear every moment of the time . . . and that was before the shell hit Gale beside him.
Cooter walked toward the conference table, parting the clot of advisors with the shockwave of his presence.
Governor Kung shoved his chair back and stood. He looked like a startled hiker who'd met a bear on a narrow trail.
"Sir," Cooter said, halting a meter from the governor in a vain effort not to be physically threatening. "Colonel Hammer—"
"You're Ranson, then?" Kung said sharply, his tenor voice keyed higher than Suilin remembered having heard it before."We were told you were going to relieve us. But I see you preferred to wait until General Halas had done the job!"
Dick Suilin moved up beside the mercenary. The edges of his vision were becoming gray, like the walls of a tunnel leading to the face of Governor Samuel Kung. Suilin's brother-in-law wasn't a handsome man, but his round, sturdy features projected unshakeable determination.
Cooter shook his head as if to clear it. "Sir," he said, "we got here as fast as we could. There was a lot of resis—"
"My troops metalot of resistance,Captain,"growled a military man—General Halas; Suilin had interviewed him a few weeks ago, during another life. "The difference is that we broke through and accomplished our mission!"
The tunnel of Dick Suilin's vision was growing red and beginning to pulse as his heart beat. Halas' voice came from somewhere outside the present universe.
"Sir,"said Lieutenant Cooter,"with all respect—the Consies put the best they had in our way. When we broke that, broke them, the troops they had left in Kohang ran rather than face us."
"Nonsense!"snapped Kung."General Halas and his troops from Camp Fortune kept up the pressure till the enemy ran. I don't know why we ever decided to hire mercenaries in the first place!"
"Don't you know why we hire mercenaries, Governor?" said Dick Suilin in a voice trembling like a fuel fire. "Don't you know?"
He stepped closer; felt the massive conference table against the front of his thighs, felt it slide away from his advance.
"Dick!" called Suzi, the word attenuated by the pounding walls of the tunnel.
"Because they fight, Governor!" Suilin shouted. "Because they win, while your rear-echelon pussies wait to be saved with their thumbs up their ass!"
Kung's face vanished. Suilin could see nothing but a core of flame.
"They saved you, you worthless bastards!" he screamed into the blinding darkness. "They saved us all!"
The reporter floated without volition or sight."Reaction to the Wide-awakes," he heard someone, Cooter, murmur. "Had a pretty rough time . . . ."
A door closed,cutting off the babble of sounds.The air was cool,and someone was gently holding him upright.
"Suzi?" he said.
"You can't let 'em get t' you," said Cooter. His right arm was around Suilin's shoulders.His fingers carefully detached the grenade launcher from the reporter's grip. "It's okay."
They were back in the hallway outside the conference room. The walls were veneered with zebra-patterned marble, clean and cool.
"It's not okay!" screamed Dick Suilin. "You saved all their asses and they don't care!"
"They don't have t' like us, snake," said Lieutenant Cooter, meeting Suilin's eyes. "They just have t' make the payment schedule."
Suilin turned and bunched his fist. Cooter caught his arm before he could smash his knuckles on the stone wall.
"Take it easy, snake," said the mercenary. "It don't mean nothin'."
THE WARRIOR
Part I
The tribarrel in the cupola of Warrior, the tank guarding the northwest quadrant of Hill 541 North, snarled in automatic air-defense mode. The four Slammers in Lieutenant Lindgren's bunker froze.
Sergeant Samuel "Slick" Des Grieux, Warrior's commander, winced. He was twenty-one standard years old, and a hardened veteran of two years in Hammer's Slammers. He kneaded his broad, powerful hands together to control his anger at being half a kay away from where he ought to have been: aboard his vehicle and fighting.
The incoming shell thudded harmlessly, detonated in the air.
Sergeant Broglie had counted out the time between the tribarrel's burst and the explosion. "Three seconds," he murmured.
The shell had been a safe kilometer away when it went off. The howl of its passage to an intersection with Warrior's bolts echoed faintly through the night.