“Uh, I suppose not,” said Snipe. His face was growing pale.
Brandy continued in a voice that carried over the sound of space drives throttling down. “More likely what we get is some softening up with whatever heavy armament the ship’s carrying. Something that size could have Class 4 UV lasers, I’d say. Shouldn’t hurt as long as you’re behind about six inches of lead shielding, or maybe ten feet of packed earth.”
“Ten feet?” Snipe looked around, trying to determine where in the trenches he’d have that much cover.
“Yeah, ten feet oughta do,” said Brandy. “Once they’ve got us keeping our heads down, they turn loose whatever they’ve got in the way of infantry-and then it gets nasty.”
“Nasty?” Snipe gulped.
“Yeah, nothing worse than close-quarters combat,” said Brandy at top volume. “But you’ve probably seen it all before, being a second lieutenant and all that.”
Snipe had his mouth open, gulping air, when Armstrong called out, “Ship’s touching down. Look alive there.”
“Look alive!” repeated Brandy at the top of her voice, turning to look at the dust cloud rising around the ship. “Once that dust settles, they can cut loose with any rays they have, so be ready to get down.”
The infernal racket of the ship’s engines abruptly ceased, and there was a long moment of expectant silence. The dust began to thin out, and Snipe cringed at the notion that death rays might even now be warming up to fry him. He looked around for something to crouch behind and finally settled for a nearby hoverjeep. It wasn’t perfect cover, but perhaps it was thick enough to protect against the Class 4 UV that Brandy had warned of. From somewhere out of sight he heard Armstrong say, “Hatches opening.”