A crystalline, satellite-relayed voice announced, “Freedom command, this is Solace Intelligence! Emergency! Emergency! Slammers artillery is launching a maximum effort barrage on your positions! We will relay shell trajectories to you as they leave the guns!”
The voice transmission ended without a signoff. A data feed which the AI courteously translated into a schematic of lines curving from south to north across the continent replaced it. The tracks shown as emanating from all three of the Regiment’s six-gun batteries were initially blue but turned red at a rate scaled to 880 meters per second: the velocity of 200-mm shells launched from the Slammers’ rocket howitzers.
Learoyd clicked the loading tube into his backup weapon, a sub-machine gun, and turned to Huber. “Are we just mopping up again, El-Tee?” he said.
“No, Learoyd,” Huber said. He was explaining to Captain Orichos as well. Deseau’d been on the net and would’ve understood the implications of the way the artillery smashed the Volunteer ambush. Learoyd hadn’t understood, and Orichos hadn’t heard. “Central’s broken into the Solace net to send a false transmission to make the Volunteers think our enemies are helping them. There isn’t really any artillery—”
As he spoke, the Regiment’s Signals Section followed the graph of “shell trajectories” with computer-generated images of Hogs firing at their maximum rate of ten rounds per minute. The gun carriages jounced from the backblast of each heavy rocket. Doughnuts of dust lifted around the self-propelled chassis and a bright spark of exhaust spiked skyward for the seven seconds before burnout. Real shells would ignite sustainer motors in the stratosphere to range from firebases in the UC to the northern tip of the Point, but there was no need to simulate that here.
“—but if the Volunteers think there is, they’ll switch their calliopes to high-angle use. They won’t be waiting to hit us when we come into sight.”
“This’s what we’ve been waiting for, Learoyd,” Deseau said, murderously cheerful. “We get to blow away a bunch of civilians in uniform!”
“Oh,” said Learoyd. He turned again and swung his tribarrel stop to stop, just making sure it’d work when he needed it. Huber didn’t recall ever hearing the trooper sound enthusiastic. “All right.”
Herbert Learoyd wasn’t the brightest trooper in the Regiment, but you could do worse than have him manning the right wing gun of your combat car. In fact Huber wasn’t sure he could’ve done better.
It was time to be a platoon leader again. Huber cleared his faceshield and replaced the phony transmission with a fifty degree mask of the terrain map. It showed the planned routes that would take the four combat cars toward the outlying Volunteer positions and Fort Freedom itself. Colored bands connected each course to the segment of hostile terrain for which that car’s guns were responsible.
“Fox Three-six to Fox,” Huber said. “We’ll be executing in a minute or less. If there’s any questions, let’s hear them now, troopers. Three-six over.”
None of his vehicle commanders responded. He’d have been amazed if one had. Four green beads along the top of his faceshield indicated that the cars themselves were within field-service parameters. That could’ve meant they’d have been deadlined for maintenance on stand-down, but unless there’d been serious damage since the last halt Huber figured they’d all pass even rear-area inspection.
“Central to Sierra Six,” the command channel announced. “You’re clear to go. Out.”
“Sierra Six to Sierra,” said Captain Sangrela. “Execute, troopers!”
“Go, Tranter!” Huber shouted, thinking that the former technician was waiting for his direct superior to relay the force commander’s order.
Fencing Master was already moving. Tranter had fooled him by the skill with which he coaxed the nacelles into a smooth delivery of power, balancing acceleration against blade angle so perfectly that the speed of the eight fans didn’t drop below optimum. Fencing Master lifted from the clay and climbed the hillside as slickly as a raindrop slides down a windowpane.
They shot over the brow of the hill. Bright verticals on Huber’s faceshield framed the sector Fencing Master was responsible for, the left post on the western spur of the ancient cinder cone fifteen kilometers away.
To the right Foghorn blasted into view measurable seconds later, its bow skirts nearly a meter above the ground for the instant before gravity reasserted itself. That’ll rattle their back teeth, Huber thought, but he had more immediate problems of his own.