“Davies, take me 25 mm,” Brandon ordered. “Tell us if you see anything!”
The man popped into the LAV and started up the short ladder to the turret when men on horseback galloped into view from the valley below. The riders were half hidden by their mounts, but the sec men could still see the males were stark naked and heavily covered with scars in decorative patterns. Their long golden hair was streaming wildly, and the newcomers had wide Oriental eyes and dark skin. Bandoliers of ammo crossed their broad chests and blasters rode at every hip, yet they carried long spears in their hands.
“Fucking coldhearts,” the lieutenant said, calmly drawing his handcannon. “Ace them and take the blasters.”
The sec men cut loose with their Kalashnikovs, the rounds hitting man and beast with little effect. A blue cursed and rummaged for a box of grens, when the top turret of the LAV-25 rotated to point the 25 mm cannon at the horsemen. The electric Gatling whined for a moment, building speed, then cut loose with a roaring staff rod of destruction. Riders and horses exploded into grisly bits as the high-explosive shells tore through their flesh. The first line of the riders vanished in the brief salvo.
With amazing precision, the other barbs reared their horses, walking them about on hind legs, then started to gallop away from the armored war wag.
“Again,” the lieutenant ordered, laughing and bolstering his piece.
The Gatling roared, and half a dozen more of the riders were blown to pieces under its furious assault before the rest made it to the safety of the ridge and disappeared.
“Won’t be seeing them again.” Brandon laughed, rubbing his hands. “Now, how about that coffee?”
Suddenly, a row of riders rose from behind the hill, their long spears soaring into the air before cresting their arc and descending toward the sec men with fearful accuracy.
The blues scattered, but it was too late. One caught a spear in the shoulder, the lance going completely through and burying itself to the hilt in the soft soil Another was caught through the boot, a third in the hand, his longblaster smashed to pieces.
Trying to step out of the way of the falling missiles, Michaels was hit in the mouth, the barbed lance going straight down his throat and out his ass, impaling the man like a pig on a spit. Still horribly alive, the blue lashed his arms about feebly, unable to scream with the wooden shaft completely filling his torn and bleeding gullet. A steady stream of red trickled out, forming a puddle around his boots.
Cursing vehemently, the lieutenant fired from me hip, blowing Michaels’s head off and the grisly corpse stopped moving.
“Chill those motherfucks!” Brandon yelled, and the LAV-25 rolled to the crest of the hill. The silent riders were galloping madly along the valley plain below, way beyond the range of the ineffective Kalashnikovs.
A soft electric whine heralded the roar of the 25 mm cannon, coming to deadly life again, spraying annihilation onto the distant coldhearts. The ground behind the horsemen churned with explosions as the armor-piercing rounds hit the soil and detonated. The noise and spray urged the barbs on, but the Gatling swept over the riders, killing the men and animals indiscriminately. Only a single rider made it to the trees and disappeared from sight. The sec man at the Gatling drilled a couple of short bursts into the greenery, then stopped wasting ammo.
Standing on the hilltop, Brandon fired a few rounds from his blaster at the escaping killer, then slapped in a fresh clip. Turning, he saw the carnage of his squadthree badly wounded, one dead. As Brandon watched, the sec man with the lance through his shoulder snapped off the shaft and gritted his teeth as he pulled himself loose. Blood gushed from the wound, and he stuffed in a dirty piece of cloth. The other men pinned by the lances did the same, painfully freeing themselves by sheer determination. Only Michaels stayed in the same position, the remains of his head lolling to one side as his arms swung loosely from the gentle wind blowing over his upright corpse.