“Sarge,” Frosty said over the intercom, “I’ll bet they’re in one of the outlying companies. I never saw those tanks at any of the firebases we’ve operated out of.”
“I’ll bet he’s right,” Panchin said. He wasn’t sure if Zaporoskiye was a place or just the name of a freelance unit raised on some Slavic planet.
Sergeant Jonas lifted his helmet and rubbed his bare scalp again. “All right,” he said tiredly. “Scepter Base is ten klicks away. I wasn’t willing to tow this pig—”
He nodded at the command vehicle.
“—that far. But I guess we can manage three. Panchin, give me a hand. We’ll use our own towlines.”
Under his breath to Panchin as they walked to Hula Girl, the sergeant added, “Because their bloody cables won’t be worth any more than any of the other bloody equipment on this bloody planet!”
“And you will carry me in your tank, please,” Major Lebusan called after them.
Major Lebusan’s presence made Hula Girl’s fighting compartment a little more cramped, but he was a small man and didn’t wear body armor like the three Slammers. Panchin couldn’t blame the major for riding with them. The broken-down command vehicle had no power for its communication devices, and Hula Girl’s fans kicked a quite astounding amount of sand and dust over it besides.
The grip of the Sulewesan vehicle’s wheels meant that sometimes it jerked Hula Girl unexpectedly, even though the combat car was heavier and had plenty of excess power for the tow. Friction with the soil was a more efficient means of braking than the vectored thrust of an air-cushion vehicle like Hula Girl.
For three kilometers it was bearable. There were rebels all over this stretch of desert. Abandoning a broken-down vehicle could mean making the other side a gift of it.
“Are there going to be any friendlies at this outpost?” Cortezar asked over the intercom. “Slammers, I mean.”
“Negative,” Panchin said. “I’d have handled their supply requests if there were.”
That was his job: supply clerk for the 1st and 2nd Platoons of G Company, Hammer’s Slammers; assigned to the government’s Desert Dragons combat group, a motley assortment of locals and off-planet mercenaries in roughly regimental strength. The Slammers’ combat cars had been perimeter security for the main body during the change of base. It was Hula Girl’s bad luck that she was the nearest car to where the missing column was supposed to be; and Reg Panchin’s bad luck that he happened to be riding her instead of another vehicle.
The column was echeloned back to the left of Hula Girl and her tow to avoid the worst of the dust. The personnel of broken-down vehicles were all packed onto others. A rebel ambush would mean a massacre; but again, Panchin understood why the weary locals wanted to escape choking discomfort even at the risk of their lives.
“Sarge, we ought to have a sight of them from the next rise,” Cortezar said. Her compartment had a multifunction display like the commander’s, so she didn’t have to echo the terrain map on her faceshield as Panchin could have done.
“Right, I’m getting their signatures already,” Jonas said. He sounded a little concerned. “Keep us hull down and I’ll let the major talk us in on the laser. We don’t have any of the codes for this laager.”
Cortezar slowed Hula Girl carefully, then cut her steering yoke to the left so that the Sulewesan command vehicle didn’t slam them from behind as it rolled off the last of its inertia. Flares were the only way to signal the remainder of the column, and Jonas wasn’t willing to target Hula Girl that way. The other vehicles, local and Zaporoskiye alike, stopped anyway without command. Their crews didn’t know how close the laager was, and they didn’t want to be leading a trek through the desert. Both sides had troops scattered throughout the region.
Sergeant Jonas deployed the mast. Panchin stared at the desert, switching his faceshield repeatedly from thermal viewing to light amplification and back again. He thought one enhancement technique might disclose something that he’d missed using the other. Rebels could be lurking just outside the laager, their electromagnetic signatures hidden by those of the friendly vehicles; waiting to ambush late-comers like Hula Girl and the column she was shepherding in.