Therefore, J.B. resolved to keep an eye on the armory, to spot any weak points and if necessary to step in, to insure his friends’ safety as much as that of the Raw dwellers.
When he arrived at the armory, he found that the small group of men and women who acted as Armorers were hard at work. There were five of them, two men and three women. The men were stacking small piles of plas-ex and grens to be distributed, while a selection of handblasters, semiautomatics, machine guns and rifles were neatly laid against the wall, the women working their way through the task of cleaning them with as much rapidity and accuracy as they could muster.
J.B. was pleased to see that everyone seemed to have checked their blasters in for maintenance. He recognized Downey’s Sharps rifle, which stood out as it was the only Sharps in the armory. The two shotguns belonging to the dreadlocked twins, Ant and Dee, stood to one side, their appalling condition causing the Armorers to set them aside, perhaps for special treatment, perhaps because of a fear that their dirt and poor condition may spread to the other blasters. He recognized Blake’s 9 mm Walther PPK by the nicks on the walnut stock. They formed a starlike pattern that was distinctive and obviously of meaning to the sec man.
On his previous visits, he had been treated distantly but politely, even though his vast knowledge had been recognized.
“Welcome, friend,” one of the female Armorers greeted him, looking up briefly from the blaster she was greasing. She was small and rotund, with apple cheeks that should have marked her down as a cook rather than the mechanic she undoubtedly was. “Have you come to aid us in this preparation?”
“If you want,” J.B. replied in a laconic tone. “You didn’t seem too keen when I came around before.”
“Nothing personal,” she replied warmly, “just as we like to keep to our own tasks is all. But if you know your business, then we can use you now.”
“Be glad to help.”
She held up the stripped blaster she was holding. “Just as a matter of interest, what would this be?”
J.B. eyed the blaster before replying. It was a large weapon, of the type used for static positions rather than carrying in combat. Just from that, the Armorer was able to guess part of Harvey’s tactic for the raid. But that was for another time. For now… J.B. grinned.
“That’s light machine—RPK, drum fed. Supposed to go on a tripod, which I guess you’ve got stacked somewhere. Shit useless on the run, but okay if you mount it somewhere to provide cover. Course, it’s supposed to do 660 rounds in a minute, but it never works that way ’cause the stupe bastards who designed it didn’t figure on how hot the barrel would get. You do too much and the mother heats up the ammo in the drum and sets it off. Then you can’t stop it firing, no matter what—and you got no control over it.”
The fat woman whistled. “You sit your ass down here and start helping, son.”
J.B.’s wry grin broke into a smile as he joined her. He felt confident that no matter what the state of the people in the raiding party, the blasters and grens wouldn’t let them down.
IN A FEW SHORT HOURS, the party was ready to leave. The previous day’s party of twenty sec men had assembled, minus the injured man who was still unconscious in the hospital unit. Alien headed the nineteen, bringing them to twenty. With Ryan’s party, minus the missing Dean, they numbered twenty-six.
Added to this were thirty men and women from Raw, all taken from their regular tasks in order to augment the raiding party, and give strength in numbers to the attack on Samtvogel.
“Sure all know what doing?” Jak whispered to Ryan as they assembled in the main hall for a briefing from the baron.
The one-eyed warrior replied softly. “If they match Alien for courage, even if not for fighting skill, then they’ll be hard enough to chill. What we’ve got to think about is the strengths of Samtvogel.”