The long burst had heated Fencing Master’s right tribarrel till it jammed. A smear of the plastic matrix that held copper atoms in alignment in the chamber clogged the ejection port instead of spitting out cleanly. Learoyd was chipping at the mess with his knife while Deseau covered both front and starboard with quick jerks of his head and a tense expression.
“Fox Three,” Huber ordered; it was time and past time to cut and run. “We’ll withdraw in line behind Three-six on the plotted track.”
As he spoke, he entered Execute on the manual controller of the C&C box, transmitting to all the troopers of his platoon the course the AI had chosen to his directions. They’d retreat parallel to the line on which they’d advanced, but not over the same track in case Solace forces had laid artillery on it in the interim.
“I’m going to start at forty kph and I’ll raise our speed if I can,” Huber continued. “If you’ve got trouble keeping interval let me know, but I don’t want these bloody tanks up our ass. Over.”
“Three-six, this is Three-three!” Jellicoe called from the north end of the line. “I’ve got movement to my rear, El-Tee! D’ye suppose Ander’s got his thumb outa his butt finally? Over.”
“Fox Three,” Huber ordered as he switched his display to give the readout from Floosie, Jellicoe’s car. “Hold in place! Three-six out.”
Everything takes time. . . . F-3 couldn’t sit long on a hillside in the face of flames and a hostile armored column, but Huber had to process information before he made a decision on which turned a battle and the lives of all his troopers. Beside him, Learoyd spun his barrel cluster a third of a turn to charge the weapon. Deseau slewed his tribarrel to the left; the bearing squealed faintly. Now Frenchie was covering the port side while his lieutenant concentrated on sensor readouts.
For a moment Huber thought they might pull this off after all: Ander’s Legion was late, but the delay would’ve convinced the hostiles that the Slammers had been left hanging. When F-3 pulled back, the Yeomanry were likely to follow without keeping a proper lookout. With any kind of luck, Ander’s force could take them in the flank and hammer them good while Huber brought his cars around to block the Solace line of retreat.
Except—
“Bloody fucking Hell!” Huber shouted.
He didn’t want it to be true, but there was no question in the world that it was. Sergeant Jellicoe wasn’t at fault: all the cars carried the same sensor pack, but the additional sorting power in Fencing Master’s Command and Control box made the difference.
There was an armored column coming up fast from F-3’s rear, all right, but it wasn’t Ander’s Legion which rode on tracked armored personnel carriers. These twenty-three vehicles, a mix of APCs and gun carriers, ran on six or eight wheels. The AI gave a 93 percent probability that they were a company of the Apex Dragoons, another of the units in Solace pay.
F-3 was trapped.
“Fox Three, this is Three-six,” Huber said, his voice calm. He was speaking noticeably slower than he usually would have. Every syllable was precise, a reaction to stress rather than a conscious attempt to be clear in a crisis. “The vehicles approaching from the east are hostile also. We’ll charge through them in line abreast instead of withdrawing to the southeast as planned.”
As Huber spoke, his right hand laid out routes and targets in the C&C display for immediate transmission to the helmets of his troopers. There were more enemy vehicles than there were guns in F-3, almost four targets per car, so he had to overlap the assignments.
That was if everything went right, of course. As soon as F-3 started taking casualties, its suppressing firepower went down and with it everybody’s chance of survival.
“Hit anything you see, troopers, but remember job one is to save our asses,” Huber said. “Drivers, keep your foot in it. Don’t slow for anything, get through and get out, that’s the only way we’re going to be around to talk about this afterwards.”
Beneath Huber, Padova was rotating Fencing Master on its axis to align its bow for the coming attack. Huber was conscious of the change only as vibration and a blur in his peripheral vision; his focus was utterly on the holographic landscape of six blue dots and the hornet’s nest of red hostiles through which F-3’s commander had to lead them.