Sangrela laughed in derision. “You want us to go through ’em or around ’em, sir?” he asked. “For choice we’ll go through.”
“Neither,” said Hammer with a spreading smile. “I’m just telling you what the situation is. We’re going to handle it from here with artillery.”
“Why in hell would you want to do that?” Mitzi Trogon snarled. She must’ve heard her own tone; she snapped fully awake at last. “Ah, sir, that is,” she added with a grimace of embarrassment.
Hammer looked at Trogon without expression for a moment, then lifted his chin minutely to show that the incident was closed—if not forgotten. “Right,” he said with a mildness that deceived nobody. “This ambush isn’t a problem, but Fort Freedom is likely to be more of one. Here the Volunteers have their calliopes tasked for ground use, waiting for your column to come into their killing zone. They aren’t professional enough to redirect the guns for artillery defense in the amount of time they’ll have. Follow?”
Because Huber understood and none of his fellow officers were in a hurry to speak after Mitzi’d stepped on her dick, he said, “When a salvo takes out the whole ambush party, Volunteer command is going to decide it’s our shells they ought to be worrying about. When we get to Bulstrode Bay, their calliopes are going to be aimed up for artillery defense and we’ll take ’em with direct fire.”
“Roger that, troopers,” Hammer said, his face minusculely softer than it’d been a moment before. “This won’t be a milk run for you, there’s no way it’s going to be that. But I told you from the beginning that you’d have all the support we could give you. Any questions?”
“Support” this time didn’t mean the artillery, not really, Huber realized. It was the planning, the misdirection; the thinking two steps ahead of his own troops and at least six steps ahead of the enemy, that the Colonel was providing here.
“What orders do you have for us, sir?” Captain Sangrela asked, the burr of warmth in his tone suggesting that he was thinking along the same lines as Huber was.
“Keep on with what you’re doing, that’s all,” Hammer said. His grin spread. “Which is plenty, I know that. We’ll time the stonk for thirty seconds before you come into sight of the target. Hit anybody that shows himself, but keep going as fast as you can. That’ll make more of an impression on what passes for a Volunteer command group than we would by digging out a couple shell-shocked wogs and blasting them. Clear?”
“Clear,” said Sangrela, nodding, and Huber added his “Clear” to the muttered “Roger,” and “Clear,” from his fellow lieutenants.
That’d save gun bores for the real fight at Bulstrode Bay as well. Maintenance had replaced the barrels burned out at Northern Star, but there probably wouldn’t be time for another refit before Sierra slammed into Fort Freedom and the Volunteer’s main body. . . .
Hammer gave a crisp nod. “Let me stick it to the bastards this time, troopers,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of opportunity for you up north.”
The Colonel’s image dissolved, returning Huber to Fencing Master’s jouncing fighting compartment. His mind and senses were as sharp as they’d ever been in his life. To the watchful expressions of his troopers and Captain Orichos, he began, “In about three hours . . .”
* * *
What looked like a streak of sparse vegetation at right angles to the river was a dike of impermeable clay channeling water into the softer soil beyond. The scout section infantry slid across without being aware of the change, but Fencing Master came down on algae-covered soup instead of the expected solid ground. A gout of mud spewed higher than the armored sides, drenching Huber and the others in the fighting compartment.
Tranter boosted power and adjusted the nacelles vertical for maximum lift. Fencing Master pogoed back onto an even keel and wallowed slowly across the basin.
“Fox Three-six to Sierra,” Huber warned. “There’s quicksand here. The panzers had better swing wide or they’ll sink to wherever the bottom turns out to be. Three-six out.”
By rights, Foghorn would’ve been the leading car if they’d gone by the preplanned rotation. Sergeant Nagano hadn’t been pleased when Huber exercised his command prerogative to put Fencing Master in the lead as the column prepared to run the Volunteer ambush, but Huber was doubly glad he’d done it now. Only a driver as able as Sergeant Tranter would’ve kept from bogging or simply sinking out of sight in this soft spot, and there were bloody few drivers that good.