“We’re taking the LAV 25.”
“Excuse me, the what?” Orin asked, confused.
“The APC.” She pointed. “That thing.”
“But Krysty, I don’t know how to drive.”
“I do,” she replied, working the bolt on the long-blaster. Walking to the rear of the military wag, she took a stance and yanked open the double doors. Nobody was hiding inside.
“Get in,” Krysty ordered, moving to the front of the wag.
Placing the AK-47 on the line of wall seats, Wyndham stepped inside and closed the doors, throwing a stout locking bolt.
“Not half bad,” the sergeant said, crouching a little to avoid hitting his head on the armored ceiling. “Usually only officers get to ride inside these.”
“It’ll do. Any chance you know how to fire a machine gun?” Krysty asked, looking at the chain gun in the turret. The machinery seemed in good shape, and the ammo bin was filled with a linked belt of brass shells.
“Of course I can,” he replied smugly. “It’s a blaster, isn’t it?”
“Good. I’ll start the engines and get you some power for the turret motors,” she said, moving to the front of the wag. The wall bins for grens were empty, which was hardly surprising, but the control board in front of the driver’s seat looked good, the indicators alive with electricity. There was lots of juice in the nuke batteries, hydraulics were normal, and almost a full tank of gas.
“With this, Lord Cawdor can grind Overton in the dirt,” Wyndham stated, awkwardly climbing into the turret. The passage wasn’t designed for a man with his wide shoulders. “Send the outlander and his bastard blue shirts straight to hell!”
“That’s the plan,” Krysty agreed as she dropped into the driver’s seat, and almost didn’t hear the telltale tick-click of a trigger mechanism setting.
“Let’s move this can!” the sergeant shouted from the turret, only his boots visible.
“Can’t,” replied the redhead, sitting absolutely motionless, her temples pounding.
“Is the engine broke?” the sec man called down, worried.
“No.” Krysty swallowed with difficulty. “I’m sitting on an armed booby trap.”
ELSEWHERE IN THE FORTRESS, armed sec men strained to keep still and not rush outside as the sounds of warfare in the corridors and streets grew louder, then dimmed, returning once more to ebb and fade. The sounds were coming through the grilled ventilation slots high in the granite block walls. The formidable door to the armory was built of sturdy oak beams, not just flimsy planks, and held together with wide bands of wrought iron riveted firmly into place. Four large hinges supported the door, and at least two men were needed to push it aside even when unlocked.
“Sir, the ville is being attacked!” admonished a frantic sec man. “Let’s grab some blasters and help defend our home! Folks are dying!”
Rows of empty blaster racks lined the walls, and almost every box of cartridges was gone. Only a few of the older muzzle-loading longblasters, and some rusty wheelguns waiting to be repaired, were still on the shelves and worktables. The men guarding the armory were armed only with axes and crossbows. Nothing that might destroy the precious hoard of powder.
“And what if it’s a trick?” the captain asked in forced calm. The man was sitting on a small keg of black powder next to a full-size hogshead of more explosive gunpowder. Embedded in the top on the big wooden container was a wheelgun, the handle jutting out and the hammer cocked for instant use. One pull on that trigger and the huge barrel of explosives would detonate, spreading a fiery chain reaction to every other barrel, keg, drum, box and crate in the armory building, an explosion that would level the fortress.
“Huh? A trick?” asked another brown shirt. The five others shared his confusion.
“Overton wants to chill us and seize the armory. What better way than to stage a fake attack using his own men to pretend to be locals, and then wait for us to rally to their aid.”
“So what do we do?” asked one man.
“What can we do?” another added.
“We sit tight,” said the captain of the guards, taking a plug of tobacco from his pocket and biting off a chaw. Smokingand striking a flamein the armory was beyond forbidden. Even the light came from some predark contraption called a safety lantern hanging from the rafters. Supposedly, the tiny flame inside the glowing mesh wick behind the glass flue wouldn’t ignite gas fumes in the air, and was allegedly safe to use near raw gunpowder. The baron had paid a fortune to buy it from the widow of a coal miner killed in a brawl.