The fourth, a skinny, balding man called Jed, was hit in the back of the right
leg as he reached the doorway. His fall blocked the door. Ryan cursed, diving
sideways into the mud, sliding on his stomach into the comforting shadow of the
war wag. Jed was down and screaming, thrashing in his pain, rolling away from
helping hands in the doorway. A second round smashed into his chest and he
hurled away his laser rifle as he coughed out a spray of arterial blood.
“Ryan!” screamed a voice from his left, on the blind side of the vehicle.
It was Samantha the Panther, crouched by the front wheels, beckoning to him. He
waved a hand, getting a flashing grin in return. Jed was down and done,
struggling to get to his hands and knees, blood trickling steadily from his open
mouth. Ryan saw someone appear near the edge of the trees, much closer to the
war wag, and throw a metallic ball toward them.
“Grenade!” he bellowed, burying his face in his arms, cushioning himself against
the shock. But the slope of the land took most of the force of the blast. The
man who’d thrown it, visible in the black security uniform, made the mistake of
hesitating to watch the success of the small bomb. A stream of fire from the
starboard MG blister hurled him against the bole of a towering cottonwood,
rolling him into the undergrowth like a bundle of sodden, bloodied rags.
Ryan took his chance to scuttle under the combat wagon, grabbing Sam’s lean,
muscular arm, hoisting himself into the comforting security port, kicking the
door shut behind him. Inside it was the usual organized bedlam, orders shouted
and a constant stream of data yelled at the man at the control center.
“You cut that a little fine, friend,” said the Trader, glancing over his
shoulder.
Ryan could not hide his surprise at seeing the Trader up and running the war wag
from his accustomed place. But this was no time to make polite inquiries about
his leader’s health.
Maybe later.
“I just made out Strasser,” called Finnegan from the starboard observation slit.
“Waste him,” said J.B., from his side.
“Can’t get a clear shot. There’s about twenty of ’em here.”
“More this side, too!” came a voice form the far flank of the war wag.
The slamming of bullets against the armor was deafening, but Ryan could tell
that the attackers had nothing heavier than hand weapons. Problems would come if
they got in closer and started using limpets or impact mines under the wheels.
“Movin’ out,” said Trader, calm as ever.
“Movin’ out,” responded Ches, engaging the gears, bringing the throbbing motor
to full-powered, roaring life. Ryan hung on to a bracket as they lurched away
from the ambush.
His eye caught Krysty, farther forward, managing a thin smile as she winked at
him. Realizing, in the heat of the combat, how glad he had been to have her with
him, safe and unharmed.
“Got an ace down the line at six of ’em settin’ up a launcher,” said Hovak from
her mortar position high up.
“Do it,” ordered the Trader. He turned to the slit at his shoulder and watched.
There was the whoomph of the heavy mortar being fired, and the war wag rolled to
counter the blast. For a second or so everyone fell silent, waiting. Ryan had
once read an old book about submarines, and he guessed it had been like this
waiting after a torpedo had been released and was running.
“Right in the cross hairs,” yelped Hovak triumphantly, banging her gloved fist
on the side of the seat. Ryan joined in the general chorus of cheers at her
success.
Ryan picked his way to the stern of the war wag, moving Rint out of the rear
observation port. Setting his eye into the soft rubber socket of the
backward-facing periscope, he used the self-centering gyro system to focus on
what was happening back at their camp.
The sec men were coming out of the forest, seeing their prey escaping, their
ambush failed. At a word of command from the Trader the shooting had ceased, and
the war wag rolled on northwest, then westward on the crumbled remains of a