Tribarrels continued to snarl, and once Huber thought he heard the sharp hiss of a Solace rocket gun. The ford wasn’t perfectly safe, but this was a war and nothing was perfect. Better to run the noncombat vehicles through immediately than wait to completely clear the area and give the enemy time to respond.
Huber eyed the flame-shot wasteland again. “A hell of a job,” he repeated.
And a job of Hell.
“Six, this is Three-five,” reported Sergeant Tranter; he was pulling drag on this leg of the run, while Fencing Master was in the center of the column between a pair of ammo haulers. “We’ve got three aircars incoming just like planned, all copacetic. Three-five over.”
Huber examined the data from Fancy Pants on his C&C box. Three-five’s sensors had picked up the aircars while they were still over the southern horizon. Their identification transponders indicated they were the resupply mission which Central’s transmission had said to expect, and they were within ninety seconds—early—of the estimated time of arrival, but still …
“Highball elements,” Huber said, “we’ll laager for ammo resupply for ten minutes at point—”
The AI threw up an option, a knob half a klick ahead and close to the planned route. It wasn’t quite bald, but the trees there were stunted and would allow the tribarrels enough range for air defense.
“—Victor Tango Four-one-two, Five-five-one. Take your guns off automatic but keep alert. The wogs could’ve captured aircars with the IFF transponders and they might just’ve gotten lucky on the timing. Six out.”
Fencing Master bumped a tree hard enough to throw those in the fighting compartment forward. Padova’d gotten over the reflex of growling every time the driver—Deseau was in front at the moment—didn’t meet her standards, but this one made her wince.
“It’ll be good to stand on the ground again,” Padova said, bending forward to massage her calf muscles. She looked up at Huber in concern. “Ah—we will be dismounting, won’t we?”
“We’ll have to,” Huber said, forcing himself to grin. “Those ammo boxes aren’t going to fly out of the aircars. We’ll be humping ’em.”
He was bone tired, but he wasn’t going to take another popper just now. Task Force Huber had a long way to go, and he’d need the stimulant worse later on.
The C&C box projected halt locations in the temporary laager to all the drivers. Fencing Master growled up the slight rise, then pulled into scrub forest which the bigger X-Ray vehicles ahead in the column were scraping clear. The place the AI had chosen for Fencing Master was across the circle of outward-facing vehicles. They brushed the massive wrenchmobile closer than Huber would’ve liked, but it was all right. Frenchie wasn’t a great driver and it was near the end of his two-hour stint anyway. They hadn’t collided, and this wasn’t a day Arne Huber needed to borrow trouble.
Deseau set them down and almost immediately climbed out the driver’s hatch. He wasn’t under any illusions about his driving, though he didn’t complain about the duty. Learoyd ought to take the next session, but …
Huber looked at Padova. “You up for another shift?” he asked. “It’s not your turn, I know.”
“You bet I am,” she said, nodding briskly. “You bet your ass!”
“Highball, we’re coming in,” an unfamiliar female voice said. “Three aircars at vector one-one-nine degrees to your position. Action Four-two out.”
“Roger, Action,” Huber said. “Highball elements, hold your fire. Six out.”
He knew he was frowning. He’d expected the resupply to be carried out by Log Section, maybe even UC civilians under contract to the Regiment. “Action” was a callsign of the White Mice.
The recovery vehicle had ground the brush in the center of the laager to matchsticks, then shoved the debris into a crude berm. The aircars came low over the treetops, circled a moment to pick locations, and landed. All showed bullet scars. They each carried two troopers, but the guard on one lay across the ammo boxes amidships, either dead or drugged comatose.
“Fox elements,” ordered Sergeant Tranter, acting as first sergeant for the task force, “each car send two men to pick up your requirements. India elements, two men per squad. Also we’ll transfer the dead and wounded to the aircars. Three-five out.”
“Frenchie,” Huber said, “hold the fort. I’m going to learn what’s going on back at Base Alpha.”
He swung his legs over the coaming, paused on the bulge of the plenum chamber, and slid to the ground. He almost crumpled under the weight of his clamshell when he landed. Via! he was woozy.
The troopers in the aircars were loosing the cargo nets over their loads; they looked as tired as Huber and his personnel. The woman with sergeant’s pips on her collar was working one-handed because the other arm was in a sling.
“Tough run?” Huber asked, sliding out a case of 2-cm ammo for Learoyd, who took it left-handed. There were spare barrels too, thank the Lord and the foresight of somebody back at Central.
“Tough enough,” she said, not quite curt enough to be called hostile.
“How are things at Base Alpha?” Huber asked, passing the next case to Padova. He didn’t know who was defending the base with so many of the combat-fit Slammers running north. He was sure it wasn’t a situation anybody was happy about.
“We’ll worry about fucking Base Alpha,” the sergeant snarled. She met his eyes; she looked like an animal in a trap, desperate and furious. “You worry about your job, all right?”
“Roger that,” Huber said evenly, taking a case of twelve 2-cm gunbarrels to empty the belly of the car. “Good luck, Sergeant.”
“Yeah,” the woman said. “Yeah, same to you, Lieutenant.”
The three dead infantrymen and the incapacitated—three more infantry and Flame Farter’s left wing gunner—had been placed in the aircars. Flame Farter’s driver and commander were ash in the remains of their vehicle.
The sergeant settled back behind the controls and muttered something on her unit push, the words muffled by circuitry in her commo helmet. Nodding, she and the other drivers brought their fans up to flying speed again.
“Action Four-two outbound,” crackled her voice through Huber’s commo helmet. The White Mice took off again, their vector fifteen degrees east of the way they’d arrived. Their approach might’ve been tracked, so they weren’t taking a chance on overflying an ambush prepared in the interim.
“Bitch,” said Padova, who’d been close enough to hear the exchange.
Huber stepped to Fencing Master and paused before swinging the spare barrels to Deseau waiting on the plenum chamber. The case of fat iridium cylinders was heavy enough in all truth; in Huber’s present shape, it felt as if he were trying to lift a whole combat car.
“Got it, El-Tee,” Learoyd said, taking the barrels one-handed before Huber had a chance to protest. He shoved them up to his partner in a movement that was closer to shot-putting than weight lifting.
Huber stretched, then quirked a grin to Padova. “I guess even the White Mice are human,” he said, grinning more broadly. “We all do the best we can. Some days—”
He held his right arm out straight so that she could see he was trembling with fatigue.
“—that’s not as good as we’d like.”
“Mount up, troopers,” Sergeant Tranter ordered. He gave Huber a thumbs-up from Fancy Pants’ fighting compartment. “Fox Three leads on this leg.”
Padova scrambled down the driver’s hatch. Huber climbed the curve of the skirts and lifted himself into the fighting compartment without Deseau’s offered hand. He seemed to have gotten his second wind.
As the fans lifted Fencing Master in preparation to resume the march, Deseau said, “Glad they brought the barrels, El-Tee. We were down to two sets after what we replaced after that last fracas. I don’t guess that’s the last shooting we’ll do this operation.”