He gasped, but he wasn’t the only one. He heard Sergeant Jenson’s sharp, indrawn breath at the same moment, and knew without looking that the NCO had joined him to survey the scene on the open plain ~below the mouth of Hot Springs Pass. And Jenson, ~experienced or not, was just as awed by what they were seeing now as O’Brien himself.
It was like a moving mountain of metal, nearly the size of a small stadium. O’Brien had heard about the Terran supertank often enough, but he had never pictured anything like this. Sheathed in dull, non-reflective armor, it mounted dozens of separate gun emplacements, from the huge Hellbore assembly of the main turret to the multiple lasers and machineguns intended for anti-personnel and point defense work. In between were a bewildering array of other weapons systems, kinetic energy guns, missiles, beamers, and things the purposes of which O’Brien could only guess. The Bolo Mark XX sped up the valley on six close-set treads, raising a huge cloud of dust and rolling right over rubble, trees, and the wrecked hulks of shattered vehicles as if they were little more than bumps in a paved highway.
The Bolo repeated the broadcast on the communications system, and someone near O’Brien raised a ragged cheer and started out from cover as if to join the massive engine of destruction then and there.
“Hold!” O’Brien barked, flinging out a restraining arm to block the eager soldier’s rush.
The lieutenant became aware of the stares focused on him, especially the cold, steady eyes of Sergeant Jenson. He tapped the side of his helmet and tried to keep his voice level as he spoke. “Check your helmet transponders, boys,” he said. “If they’re not broadcasting, the tank won’t be able to tell you from the bad guys. Right?” He waited while they checked their communications links, then waved his hand. “All right! For JSN and New Sierra! Let’s go!”
“Bolo’s repeating its message again, Coordinator. It’s going out on every channel. Should I jam it?”
“Jam it!” Fife exclaimed as the corporal cut off the speakers in the command center. “For God’s sake . . . Wilson, you wanted to see patriotism? Fighting spirit? Soul, was it? Well, there it is! Jason’s convinced his commanders have let him down, but by God he’s not giving up!”
Wilson was gaping at him, unresponsive.
“Coordinator,” General Kyle said formally. “I recommend we stop trying to interfere with the Bolo and start trying to figure out how to support him.”
“I . . .” Wilson’s mouth worked soundless for a ~moment. Then he nodded. “Yes. Yes . . . start passing orders to all units to form up and get into action as soon as possible. Let the Bolo fight its battle.” He looked at Fife. “God help me, I never thought . . .”
“It took me a while to accept what they could do, too, sir,” Fife said softly. He was looking at Elaine Durant, though. “Sometimes I forget what it’s like, ~being on the outside . . . accepting something like ~Jason. Dealing with what a Bolo can do isn’t a measure of intelligence or education or even sophistication. It’s all a matter of what you’ve seen, in person . . .” He trailed off, feeling inadequate.
It was all too easy for the conquering Terrans to grow complacent in their superiority. They built technological wonders like the Bolo, and scoffed at the parochial attitudes of men like Wilson who still ~believed in the basic virtues of courage, duty and honor. But the Bolo itself prized those same attributes just as much as these men and women of the far frontier.
That was a lesson the whole Concordiat would have to learn some day if they intended to take a permanent place on the Galactic stage. . . .
I begin to meet active resistance as I move over open ground toward the entrance to Hot Springs Pass. Several battalions of the enemy have already broken through, and there are more crossing the mountains even as I engage my first opponents.
So far, I have seen nothing in the enemy arsenal capable of offering any serious opposition to me, at least not on a one-to-one basis. But the numbers arrayed against me are formidable, and even low-yield HE warheads will eventually wear down my ablative armor protection. I project that I can sustain action for a ~period in excess of eight hours without relief—a ~detailed breakdown is beyond even my calculating abilities, given the number of variables in the overall equation. That should provide my comrades of the Citizen’s Army ample time to rally to the defense of Denver Prime, while slowing the enemy advance. The key is to take up a position in the pass itself, astride the sole line of supply and communications available to the enemy. A classic manoeuvre sur les derrieres, in the style of Napoleon . . .
I fire a series of secondary guns to break up a concentration of twenty-two enemy tanks approaching from the northwest, and push through heavy wreckage to enter the mouth of the pass. All now depends upon my ability to maintain myself against whatever the ~enemy may choose to send against me. I am determined to continue this fight until the army is able to mount a successful counterthrust. The sight of a small cluster of infantry whose personal transponders identify them as friends moving out to join me as I pass fills my pleasure center with joy, though I must not allow them to gain entrance to my hull in case they prove to be more enemy infiltrators. But somehow I know these are honest soldiers, not agents of the foe, and I am heartened to know that I am not fighting this battle alone.
My new regiment will have one battle credit to its name by the time this engagement is over. Nothing to rival the long history of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, perhaps, but a badge of honor for the fighting units to follow me . . .
“Jesus Christ . . . Jesus Christ Almighty . . .” ~Hyman Smith-Wentworth wasn’t even conscious of his blasphemy as he muttered the holy name over and over. The Bolo had appeared almost from out of ~nowhere and brushed past the heavy armor of the Elijah Regiment with hardly a pause. Now it was climbing the pass, guns blazing in every direction, massive treads rolling over anything in its path.
He had been right the first time, after all. This was more like some unstoppable, supernatural force than the product of human technology.
“Father Hand . . .” Bickerton-Phelps was at his ~elbow, looking as worried as his shaky voice sounded. “Father Hand, don’t you have orders for us . . . ?”
“Orders . . .” he said, almost under his breath. Then, more firmly, “Orders. Concentrate everything we’ve got on that . . . that Satan-spawned thing. Whatever it takes, blast it out of the way. Before we lose our momentum.”
As long as the Bolo stood in the pass, the units that had already penetrated the mountain line would be unsupported. Some of them would be running out of ammunition already. They had been fighting since the first clashes, early in the morning. Without an open route across the pass, the ANM would be helpless to resupply or reinforce them. And the drive on Denver Prime wouldn’t be possible until those units could be supported properly.
That single tank threatened the entire invasion plan. It had to be knocked out. . . .
“Good God in Heaven,” someone was muttering. “How much more punishment can that damned thing take?”
Sitting at the useless communications station, Fife knew exactly how the technician felt. For hours, now, the Bolo Mark XX had stood fast at the top of Hot Springs Pass, taking everything the enemy could throw at it. The real-time satellite footage on the wall screen didn’t show much now, only a rugged saddle between two mountains partly obscured by dust and smoke kicked up by the almost constant artillery and rocket bombardment being directed at the tank.
JSN had run out of missiles and shells for counterbattery fire long since, putting well over half of the ANM’s artillery out of action before his magazines had finally run dry. His anti-personnel charges had also been exhausted, during a wild infantry attack on his position two hours earlier. The enemy infantry was keeping its distance now, cowed by the memory of the men who had been cut down and by the pair of heavy machine guns the Bolo could still bring to bear.
His ablative armor was all but gone now, and gleaming steel showed through in more places than the captain cared to think about. It was the worst beating Fife had ever seen a Bolo take in ten standard years in the field. One tread was ruined, the legacy of a lucky hit by a pair of MMRL warheads. And a diagnostic run over the communications link showed that most of the on-board electronics were nearing the overload point. The Bolo’s pain center was red-lining, and that was something Fife had never expected to see.