Just as well he hadn't done that. With a hole that big venting the plenum chamber, the tank woulda been anchored until it was fixed.
Tribarrels fired, the thump of expanding air preceded minutely by the hiss of the energy discharge that heated a track to the target. Another salvo of mortar shells landed, and an earth shock warned of something more substantial hitting in the near distance.
Not a time to be standing around outside, welding a patch on a tank's skirts.
With the first bolt in place, the second was a snap. Or maybe Herman's Whore had just decided to quit fighting him now that the shooting had started. The bitch was Slammers equipment, after all.
The tank shuddered. It was just Simkins hitting the main switch, firing up the containment/compression lasers in the fusion bottle that powered the vehicle, but for a moment Ortnahme thought the fan he held was live.
And about to slice the top half of his body into pastrami as it jiggled around in its mounting.
Shrapnel glanced from the thick iridium of the hull. It made a sharp sound that didn't echo the way pieces did when they rang on the cavernous steel plenum chamber. Ortnahme found the last hole with the nose of a bolt and triggered the multitool. The fastener spun and stopped—too soon. Not home, not aligned.
Another earth shock, much closer than the first. Herman's Whore shuddered again, and the bolt whirred the last centimeter to seat itself properly.
Warrant Leader Henk Ortnahme, wheezing with more than exertion, squirmed on his belly toward the access port. He ignored the way the soil scraped his chest raw.
He started to lift himself through the access port—carefully: the mine had stripped half the bolts holding down the cover plate, so there was sharp metal as well as a bloody tight fit.
Tribarrels ripped outward, across the berm. To the south flares and tracers—mostly aimed high, way too high—from the Yokel lines brightened the sky.
Ortnahme was halfway through the access port when, despite the crash and roar of gunfire, he heard the whisper of more incoming mortar shells.
The 20cm main gun of another tank fired, blotting every other sight and sound from the night with its thunderous cyan flash.
When Ranson hit the deck, Dick Suilin's first reaction was that the woman officer was having convulsions. He turned to call for help, blinking because Fritzi's light had flared across him as the cameraman spun to record a new subject: half-clad soldiers sprinting or sprawling all across the detachment area. Somebody was ringing a raucous bell that—
Ranson, flat on the ground, grabbed Suilin's right ankle and jerked forward.
"Hey!" the reporter shouted, trying to pull away.
Standing straight, the woman didn't even come up to his collarbone, but she had a grip like a wire snare. Suilin overbalanced, flailing his arms until his butt hit the coarse soil and slammed all the air out of his lungs.
There was a white flash, a bang, and—about an inch above Suilin's head—something that sounded like a bandsaw hitting a pineknot. Fritzi grunted and flung his camera in the opposite direction. Its floodlights went out.
"Fritzi, what are you—" Suilin shouted, stopping when his words were punctuated by two more blasts.
They were being shelled for God's sake! Not two hours' ride from Kohang!
The Slammers captain had disappeared somewhere, but when Suilin started to get up to run for cover, Fritzi Dole fell across him and knocked him flat again.
Suilin started to curse, but before he got the first word out a nearby combat car lighted the darkness with a stream of bolts from a tribarrel.
The chunk of shrapnel which grated past Suilin a moment before had chopped off the back of his cameraman's skull. Fritzi's blood and brains splashed Suilin's chest.
Dick Suilin had seen death before; he'd covered his share of road accidents and nursing home fires as a junior reporter. Even so, he'd been on the political beat for years now. This was a political story; the waste of money on foreign mercenaries when the same sums spent on the National Army would give ten times the result.
And anyway, covering the result of a tavern brawl wasn't the same as feeling Fritzi's warm remains leak over the neat uniform in which Suilin had outfitted himself for this assignment.
He tried to push the body away from him, but it was heavy and as flexible as warm bread dough. He thought he heard the cameraman mumbling, but he didn't want to think that anyone so horribly wounded wouldn't have died instantly. Half of Fritzi's brains were gone, but he moaned as the reporter thrust him aside in a fit of revulsion.
Suilin rolled so that his back was toward the body.
The ground which he'd chosen for his interview was bare of cover, but a tank was parked against the berm twenty meters from him.He poised to scuttle toward the almost astronomical solidity of the vehicle and cower under the tarpaulin strung like a lean-to from its flank.
Before the reporter's legs obeyed his brain's decision, a man in the Slammers' dull khakir an past.The mercenary was doubled over by the weight of equipment in his arms and fear of shrapnel.
He was the only figure visible in what had been a languorously busy encampment. Suilin ran after him, toward the combat car almost as close as the tank, though to the opposite side.
The reporter needed companionship now more than he needed the greater bulk of steel and iridium close to his yielding flesh.
The combat car's driver spun its fans to life. Dust lifted, scattering the light of the tribarrel firing from the vehicle.
Three more mortar shells struck. Through the corner of his eye, Suilin saw the tarp plastered against the side of the tank.
The cloth was shredded by the blast that had flung it there.
"Hey, snake," said DJ Bell, smiling like he always had, though he'd been dead three months. "How they hangin'?"
Sergeant Birdie Sparrow moaned softly in his sleep."Go away,DJ,"his dreamself murmured. "I don't need this."
"Via, Birdie," said the dead trooper. "You need all the friends you can get. We—"
The short, smiling man started to change, the way he did in this dream.
"—all do."
Birdie didn't sleep well in the daytime, but with a tarp shading him, it was okay, even with the heat.
He couldn't sleep at all after dark, not since DJ bought it but kept coming back to see him.
DJ Bell was a little guy with freckles and red hair. He kept his helmet visor at ninety degrees as an eyeshade when he rode with his head and shoulders out of the commander's hatch of his tank, but his nose was usually peeling with sunburn anyways.
He'd had a bit of an attitude, DJ did; little-guy stuff. Wanted to prove he was as tough as anybody alive, which he was; and that he could drink anybody under the table—which he couldn't, he just didn't have the body weight, but he kept trying.
That stuff only mattered during stand-downs, and not even then once you got to know DJ. Birdie'd known DJ for five years. Been his friend, trusted him so completely that he never had to think about it when things dropped in the pot. DJ'd covered Birdie's ass a hundred times. They were the kind of friends you only had when you were at the sharp end, when your life was on the line every minute, every day.