Fencing Master swerved right, then left, to avoid a pair of burning vehicles. Something whumped inside one; a crimson geyser blew debris out of the driver’s hatch. It would’ve been attractive in its way if Huber hadn’t realized the tumbling object was a shriveled human hand.
“Via, troopers . . .” he said, looking back across the valley as his combat car swung into position on the crest. Despite the filters, his eyes watered and the back of his throat felt raw. “We all did a hell of a job! Six out.”
Smoke, gray and becoming black, blanketed the ford. In some places it bubbled above a particular vehicle, but for the most part it hung silently. Because Huber’s faceshield was still set for thermal imaging, he could see through the pall to the wreckage littering the valley. The smoke would make a good screen against sniping by Solace survivors, in the unlikely event that any of those survivors wanted to continue the battle.
The tank recovery vehicle carrying the excavator in its bed grunted over the south crest and drove slowly into the smoke. It was the first of the X-Ray units, but a Hog was close behind and then two ammo haulers. Infantry swung aboard the big vehicles, dragging their skimmers up behind them.
Tribarrels continued to snarl, and once Huber thought he heard the sharp hiss of a Solace rocket gun. The ford wasn’t perfectly safe, but this was a war and nothing was perfect. Better to run the noncombat vehicles through immediately than wait to completely clear the area and give the enemy time to respond.
Huber eyed the flame-shot wasteland again. “A hell of a job,” he repeated.
And a job of Hell.
* * *
“Six, this is Three-five,” reported Sergeant Tranter; he was pulling drag on this leg of the run, while Fencing Master was in the center of the column between a pair of ammo haulers. “We’ve got three aircars incoming just like planned, all copacetic. Three-five over.”
Huber examined the data from Fancy Pants on his C&C box. Three-five’s sensors had picked up the aircars while they were still over the southern horizon. Their identification transponders indicated they were the resupply mission which Central’s transmission had said to expect, and they were within ninety seconds—early—of the estimated time of arrival, but still . . .
“Highball elements,” Huber said, “we’ll laager for ammo resupply for ten minutes at point—”
The AI threw up an option, a knob half a klick ahead and close to the planned route. It wasn’t quite bald, but the trees there were stunted and would allow the tribarrels enough range for air defense.
“—Victor Tango Four-one-two, Five-five-one. Take your guns off automatic but keep alert. The wogs could’ve captured aircars with the IFF transponders and they might just’ve gotten lucky on the timing. Six out.”
Fencing Master bumped a tree hard enough to throw those in the fighting compartment forward. Padova’d gotten over the reflex of growling every time the driver—Deseau was in front at the moment—didn’t meet her standards, but this one made her wince.
“It’ll be good to stand on the ground again,” Padova said, bending forward to massage her calf muscles. She looked up at Huber in concern. “Ah—we will be dismounting, won’t we?”
“We’ll have to,” Huber said, forcing himself to grin. “Those ammo boxes aren’t going to fly out of the aircars. We’ll be humping ’em.”
He was bone tired, but he wasn’t going to take another popper just now. Task Force Huber had a long way to go, and he’d need the stimulant worse later on.
The C&C box projected halt locations in the temporary laager to all the drivers. Fencing Master growled up the slight rise, then pulled into scrub forest which the bigger X-Ray vehicles ahead in the column were scraping clear. The place the AI had chosen for Fencing Master was across the circle of outward-facing vehicles. They brushed the massive wrenchmobile closer than Huber would’ve liked, but it was all right. Frenchie wasn’t a great driver and it was near the end of his two-hour stint anyway. They hadn’t collided, and this wasn’t a day Arne Huber needed to borrow trouble.