The rounds flew out with a ripping snarl like a chainsaw and the fire looked like nothing so much as an orange laser; every fifth round was a tracer and they were so close together they looked like one continuous stream.
Buckley nodded as the gun continued to fire and then frowned as it clanked to a halt with a shrill scream of disengaged torsion controller. "Shit." The brass cartridge that had caused the latest jam was clearly evident, "stovepiped" in the ejector. "Shit, shit, shit," he continued, reaching for the cartridge.
"Sarge, the gun's hot," Wright objected.
"Screw that," Buckley said, waving Alejandro away from the breakers. "I want to get this over with before . . ."
The two specialists never found out what it was he wanted to get it over with before because the problem was a short, but not in the gun or even in the M27 mount. The problem was in the resistor that controlled power flow to the M27.
The resistor coil stepped down the power that was supplied to all the guns so that the voltage going to the mounts was at the proper level. But in the case of Mount B-146, the resistor was slightly flawed, and it was permitting a higher charge through.
This charge had been "bleeding over" to the gun, and since the gun was driven by an electrical motor it was causing the motor to run at a slightly higher rpm than it was strictly designed for. But since the gun was on a controlled ground, the full power of the flawed resistor had never been released.
When Sergeant Buckley grabbed the brass, though, the power, having found a conduit, went to work. And he was suddenly hit by 220 volts of AC power.
Buckley stood in place, shaking for a moment, until all the breakers for the sector blew out.
"Damn," said Wright. "That's gotta hurt. You didn't have to blow him to hell to prove your point, Alejandro."
"I didn't," the specialist replied, pulling an injector of Hiberzine out of the first aid case. "Call the medics while I start the CPR. Tell 'em Buckley's having a bad day again."
* * *
"Come!"
Lieutenant Sunday walked into the company commander's office and came to the position of attention. "You asked to see me, ma'am?"
"You don't have to pop to attention every time you come in, Sunday," Slight said with a smile. "Bowing will suffice."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, starting to bow.
"Oh, cut it out." She laughed. "Look, Lieutenant, I know it's Saturday, but we're in a bind. First Sergeant?"
It was only then that Tommy noticed First Sergeant Bogdanovich in the corner, lounging like a leopard on the company commander's couch.
Boggle's brow furrowed and she leaned forward urgently. "Lieutenant, several suits in the company have a critical shortage of biotic undergel. Since it's a GalTech controlled substance, it can only be released to a qualified Fleet officer."
"I'm hereby appointing you Armory officer for the company," Slight continued. "I want you to go over to S-4 and find all the undergel you can lay your hands on. Clear?"
"Clear, ma'am," Sunday said, snapping to attention. "Permission to leave?"
"Go," Slight said seriously. "And don't come back until you have it; we really need to get the suits up to speed."
After the mountainous lieutenant was well clear of the room the two women exchanged glances and then First Sergeant Bogdanovich, veteran of countless battlefields, gave a very uncharacteristic giggle. "Two hours."
"Less," Slight said shaking her head. "He's no dummy."
* * *
Lieutenant Sunday marched into the office of the S-4 NCOIC, who started to get to his feet.
"At ease," the lieutenant said waving his hand. "Rest even."
"Good morning, L-T," the staff sergeant said. "What can I do for you this fine . . . er . . . Sunday morning." The combination of the name of the day and the officer's name clearly had him baffled.
"Don't worry about it," Sunday said. "I've dealt with it all my life; I'm used to it. The CO sent me over here to draw some undergel. I've been designated the 'Armory Officer' so I'm cleared."
"Ah, undergel, huh?" McConnell said with a frown. "I think we're about out, sir. The Indowy used it up fitting suits last month. We've got a shipment on order, but . . . well, you know how the GalTech supply line is."
"Damn," said Sunday, nodding his head seriously. "All out, huh? There's not like, you know, one can, someplace? Or maybe a short case hiding under somebody's desk?"
McConnell looked at him sidelong for a second then nodded. "Well, I think there might be a can in the battalion headquarters," he answered on a rising note.
"Gee," said Sunday, putting his hands on his hips. "Maybe I should run over to battalion and see the . . . ?"
"Battalion commander," McConnell answered.
"You sure?" Sunday asked, honestly surprised. "It's not like, oh, I dunno, the S-3 NCOIC or, maybe, the sergeant major?"
"Nope, L-T," McConnell answered, definitely. "Major O'Neal. He has the can of undergel. Or so I have been given to believe."
"Right," Sunday said, getting to his feet. "Here I go to see the Battalion Commander to Get Some Undergel. See? And, oh, by the way, Sergeant."
"Yesss?" asked McConnell.
"I think maybe you should call the BC and tell him I'm coming over," Sunday said with a feral grin. "But, maybe, you should leave the . . . overtones of our conversation out." He leaned over the sergeant's desk and smiled in a friendly manner. "Okay?"
"Okay," McConnell said with a grin. "Whatever you say, L-T."
"Apropos of nothing whatsoever, Sergeant," Sunday continued, straightening up. "I feel constrained to mention that I'm something of a student of the Armored Combat Suit. And, if memory serves correctly, the suits generate their own underlayer nannites. What do you have to say that?"
"I wouldn't know what to say, L-T," the NCO said with a smile.
"I'm also constrained to mention, sarge, that when someone in the military refers to the other by their bare rank, or a negative derivation thereof, such as the name of a bottom-feeding fish, it is generally a sign that that person does not truly respect the individual, whatever their rank. What do you have to say that?"
The NCO laughed. "I wouldn't say a damned thing to that, sir."
"Call me Tank, Sergeant McConnell," Sunday said on the way out the door. "All my friends do."
CHAPTER 22
Newry Cantonment, PA, United States, Sol III
0923 EDT Saturday September 26, 2009 ad
"Major," said Gunny Pappas with a straight face. "Lieutenant Sunday is out here and would like a minute of your time."
"Come on in, Sunday," O'Neal called.
Sunday marched in, came to the position of attention, and saluted. "Sir. Captain Slight has requested that I obtain some undergel replacement! I am given to understand that you have the last available can in the battalion!"
Mike leaned back, returned the salute languidly and tapped the ash off the end of his cigar. "Running low, huh? And, as a matter of fact, I sent the can over to Charlie Company. But I hear they used it up. You can go over to Charlie and ask them if there's any left or you can try to scrounge some up on your own. Your call."
"Yes, sir," Sunday said, saluting again. "Permission to continue my search, sir!"
"Carry on, Sunday," O'Neal said, with another languid wave. "And tell Slight that undergel doesn't grow on trees."
"Yes, sir!" the lieutenant said, spinning about and marching out the door.