contact died on them or was knocked out. And above, another man had gone to join
O’Mara, with a signal lamp. And in each of the massive war wags it would be the
same: men jumping to their places smoothly, fluidly, without thinking about it
for a second.
Here the five-man squad was flung out around the cabin area: one crouched in the
well that dropped to the head, an MG trained at the door; two men in the
passageway leading to the bunk-rooms, one lying on the floor, the other
flattened against the wall angle; one man beside the radio table, auto-rifle
fixed on a point about a foot above the bottom of the door itself; the fifth
behind the door, the first to fire, ready to jump into the opening and pour
steel-jacketed death into the night. Cohn crouched over his wall transceiver,
whispering at it, uncomfortably aware as always that he would be literally a
sitting target once the door was open.
Ryan killed the lights, turning the large cabin into a place of shadows weirdly
lit by the driver-control lights and lamps in the bunk-room corridor. He pressed
two buttons on a small console beside the door, flicked two long bolts, twisted
at the handle with his left hand while stabbing a finger at another button on
the panel. A small bulb in the panel remained dark.
“External lights’ve gone, or been blown. This could be it.”
He shoved the door open with his boot and sprang back, to be greeted by darkness
outside, darkness that was not night darkness but deep dawn-gray. As his eyes
became accustomed to the near absence of light he could just make out a jumble
of rocks near the edge of the road where nothing moved. His auto-rifle was held
two handed, trigger ready. Adrenaline was boosting into his bloodstream. He
could hear nothing. Every vehicle in his land wag train had rolled to a halt.
Then he glanced down. He saw the hand, long fingered and bony, appear as though
by magic at the bottom of the doorway, something clutched in it. The hand
jerked, unclenched, disappeared. A steel ball clattered fast across the floor
toward him.
Without conscious thought, he reacted so his right boot hit the object on the
bounce, sent it sailing back out into the night again, his right finger
squeezing off two 3-round bursts of automatic fire that angrily highlighted the
face of the man flattened against the wall beside the door. The he was diving to
his right and screaming, “They’re under us!”
His yell was lost in the cracking blast of the grenade as it ripped itself apart
among the boulders, sending steel shards and bits of rock whistling in through
the door.
Ryan rolled, shot to his feet almost in one fluid movement and lunged at the
doorway, his rifle flicked to full automatic and spewing rounds, hot brass
clattering against the steel wall nearest him. As he reached the doorway, two
shadowy figures vaulted up into the space, only to be punched back shrieking,
their chests slug-stitched, their backs spraying blood and bone. Ryan grabbed
the handle, pouring more lead down into the road, and yanked on it, slamming the
door tight. He shot the bolts, breathing hard, then swung around on Cohn, his
brain already working out survival details.
“Get hold of Four. Tell ’em to abandon ship. Up through the roof and jump for
Three. There’s probably guys crawling all over the place, so watch the hell out.
Tell ’em the last man out must leave a four-minute booby as near as possible to
their cargo. Tell Two and Three we’re shifting butt right now. Tell the rear
trucks to backpedal fast.”
Cohn went into smooth automatic, playing with his switches, muttering inaudibly
into his throat mike.
“Move it, Ches!” snapped Ryan, and grabbed for a handhold as the huge war wag
lurched forward with a mighty howl, gathering speed and lumbering onward.
The Trader said, “Must’ve been well hidden in those rocks. Didn’t see a
nukeblasted thing.”
“They were on the road. Crazies!” Ryan told him. “We probably flattened a score
before the guy who mattered managed to grab hold of Four. Suicidal fuckers!”