consideration. It was too late for the rest of the convoy. It would have been
physically impossible to make safe the other vehicles. The explosions to the
east had ceased, only fire consuming what remained lit the sky now, an angry
orange dancing against the deeper red of the night.
He knew that the Trader would have automatically thrown the On as soon as he
heard the train had been nerved out and as soon as he realized he was
surrounded. And the captains of the other vehicles would have done the same. It
would have been a reflex action. Therefore, the convoy was set to blow only
minutes after the land wag train.
He shoved Conn unceremoniously out of his radio chair, felt for the box under
the table, snapped over the lever there. Then he dived for the ladder up to the
machine gun blister in the roof. O’Mara was still in his seat, slumped forward,
dead to the world. Ryan reached past him for the MG grips, canted the weapon,
opened up and proceeded to flay the truck parked beside the war wag at almost
point-blank range. Blazing tracers ripped into the back of the truck’s cab,
opening it up, chewing it apart, and Ryan could hear nothing but the terrible
chatter of the gun, could see nothing but the devastation it created.
He jumped back down to the main cabin and dived for the drive seat. Ches was
lying on the floor beside it, and Ryan stepped over him and sat down. He began
to play the console, feeling a stupendous relief flooding through him as the
engine bellowed into life. He glanced to his right, saw flames in the cab of the
parked truck, a guy silently screaming and haloed in fire as he struggled to
claw himself out the open window—then that scene was wiped as the huge MCP
lurched forward, gathering speed. He flicked the spotlight on, and the gloom
became bright day in an instant. He saw fireflies all around him, red
muzzle-flash winking in the dark beyond the spotlight’s beam, and could hear the
rattle of rounds on the sides of the cab. They could still kill him. All it
needed was tracer at the front and the temporary screen would blow apart and him
with it. He jabbed one of the firing buttons on the console and cannon fire
hammered out its death song from below, pounding a buggy in front that suddenly
ripped apart in a gout of white fire as its gas tank erupted. Figures fled away
from his spot beam; any one of them could have been Strasser.
To one side another buggy lurched into life, and Ryan savagely swung the wheel
to send the war wag barreling into it. The smaller vehicle was smashed sideways,
and Ryan felt the MCP rise and yaw, crunching through a sudden tangle of steel,
twisting and crushing the other vehicle beneath its ponderous weight. He swung
the wheel again and felt the rear tracks ride over what was left.
Where the hell was Krysty?
He saw her, a fleet figure sprinting into his beam along the road. He sent the
war wag crashing up and onto the blacktop, aimed it for Mocsin and geared it
into full-auto mode. Then he scrambled over Ches and moved fast across the cabin
area to the door to unfasten it. The war wag ground on along the road, medium
fast, and the young woman appeared in the doorway, running alongside before
grabbing Ryan’s outstretched hand. He hauled her in as more bright light tore
the night apart and the war wag shuddered. Ryan slammed the door shut, cutting
off the worst of the thunderous explosions that were now ripping through the
convoy.
“Co-driver’s seat,” he yelled, hurdling sprawled bodies and diving back into the
chair, snapping the brute vehicle out of auto and wrenching the wheel as another
shock wave from the self-destructing convoy hammered at them.
Krysty collapsed into the seat beside him, wiping an arm across her mud- and
sweat-stained face.
She gasped, “Is life with the Trader always like this?”
Chapter Eleven
THE SMOKE FROM THE FIRE coiled uneasily, circling upward among the branches of