“Which means we have to chance a jump,” Doc said, wrapping the tape around the handle of a gren, and carefully sliding the pin back into position. He eased the charge into the canvas bag and took his swordstick by the top. At this range the grens were useless, but his Spanish steel would make short work of the primitive troglodytes.
“A jump,” Ryan repeated. Shouldering the long-blaster, he started to walk through the worshiping mob of little muties. “Do we have another choice?”
HITCHING UP THEIR PANTS, two sec men walked from the lav of the Shiloh ville situated near the stone quarry when one of them stopped in his tracks.
“Hey, what the fuck was that?” the private asked, looking around. “Sounded like a blaster on full-auto.”
The sergeant bit off the end a cigar and inserted the tobacco fully into his mouth to moisten the leaves. Setting the end on his back teeth, he struck a match and lit the end of the cigar until it glowed cherry red. “Couldn’t be,” he stated. “Ain’t nobody got rapid-fires but us.”
“Mebbe so,” the private replied hesitantly, tightening his belt. “But I think we better report it anyway.”
“Sure,” the sergeant said, puffing, completely unconcerned. “You do that. Collette loves wild reports of ghostly blasterfire. Give you a big kiss.”
Following the man back to the barracks, the private paled at the very thought of angering their volatile chief and debated the wisdom of such an action.
Chapter Eleven
The tall grass almost reached the ob slit of Alpha team’s LAV-25 as it traveled through the waving expanse of wild wheat stalks. Braking to a halt in the middle of a rolling field, the driver set the brakes but didn’t kill the engine, the big Detroit power plant chugging over steadily.
The vented muzzles of AK-47 longblasters jutted from every blasterport. One of the back doors was swung open, and Private Michaels stepped to the ground, blaster in hand. Some birds pecked at apples in a tree, and somewhere nearby a stream babbled over stones. A loon called for its mate, and a swarm of bees buzzed around the rusted hollow of a mailbox jutting from the ground.
“Keep me covered, boys,” Michaels said, bolstering his piece and opening the heavy wooden case hanging at his side. Extracting the sextant, he shot the sun and started the simple calculations.
“Well?” Lieutenant Brandon asked impatiently. Soft wind ruffling his hair, Brandon stood in the open hatch of the turret, an arm draped across the 25 mm cannon.
“We’re in Kentucky,” the healer reported, his pencil busy. Then he looked up. “Yep, this is where the dish and some pissant ville are supposed ta be.”
No structures were visible for as far as they could see, only gently rolling hills of low grass, some mountains to the north and a young forest to the west. The lieutenant scowled. “You sure?”
Michaels carefully double-checked the compass, and then the sextant once more. “Yes sir, this is the area. Map shows a big city dish right here where we’re standing.”
“Seti,” the lieutenant corrected him automatically. “Not city.”
“Sure. What does that mean, anyway?” the man asked.
Brandon had no idea, but would never admit a weakness in front of his troops. “Shut up,” he snapped. “That’s baron stuff.”
The man accepted the rebuff and packed the sextant into its cushioned box. He knew the predark instrument was much more valuable than him, and took extraspecial care of it. If it got broken by his hand, the healer died.
“Okay, get out and stretch your legs,” Brandon commanded, rising from his chair. “Hit the latrine and let’s get some coffee on. We got two hundred more miles till the next dish.”
“Hopefully,” a private said, nursing the broken arm in a sling.
As the sec men climbed from the wag and started to gather wood for the campfire, Brandon heard an odd thunder in the distance. Glancing at the sky, the sec man saw purple clouds, laced with fiery orange and crackling with sheet lightning. Nothing unusual there. Yet the noise got steadily louder, and the blues moved toward the APC, grabbing their rifles and checking clips.
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