Without the blocked fan, Deathdealer would’ve been over the mine before the radar warning. Maybe past the mine before the Consie at the detonator could react—that was the advantage of speed and the shattering effect of heavy gunfire, the elements Sparrow’d been counting on to get them through.
And their armor. Even a mine that big . . .
“All Mike—T-tootsie elements,” Sparrow warned. “The road’s mined! Mine!”
He’d frozen the gunnery controls as he waited for the collision. Now, while Albers muscled the tank clear of the wreckage and started to build speed again, Sparrow put both pippers on the building across the road from them. He vaporized it with a long burst and three twenty-centimeter rounds, just in case the command detonator was there rather than in the shattered gambling den.
It might have a pressure or magnetic detonator. Speed wouldn’t ‘ve helped Deathdealer then, if luck hadn’t slewed them off the road at the right moment.
“Can’t touch us!” Birdie Sparrow muttered as he fired back over the tank’s left rear skirts. “Can’t touch us!”
“Not this time, snake,” said DJ Bell as bitter gases writhed through the turret.
If he’d bothered to look behind him, Hans Wager could’ve seen that the tail end of the column had yet to pass the gates of Camp Progress.
Just over the ridge, all hell was breaking loose.
Wager’s instinctive reaction was the same as always when things really dropped in the pot: to hunker down behind his tribarrel and hope there were panzers close enough to lend a hand.
It gave him a queasy feeling to realize that this time, he was the tank element and it was for him, Blue Three, that the CO was calling.
“—move forward and lay a clearing charge!”
Something big enough to light the whole sky orange blew up behind the ridge. Pray the Lord it was Consies eating some of their own ordnance rather than a mine going off beneath a blower.
The lead tank and Tootsie Six had both dropped over the ridgeline. One-five and One-one pulled forward. The first car slid to the right in a gush of gray-white ash colored blue by gunfire while the other accelerated directly up the road.
Blue Three shuddered as her driver poured the coal to her. Through inexperience, Holman swung her fan nacelles rearward too swiftly. Their skirts scraped a shower of sparks for several meters along the pavement.
Wager found his seat control, not instinctively but fast enough. He dropped from cupola level while the tank plowed stabilized gravel with a sound like mountains screaming.
Tracers stitched the main screen and across the sky overhead, momentary flickers through the open hatch.
One-five vanished behind the crest. One-one swung to the right and stopped abruptly with a flare of her skirts, still silhouetted on the ridgeline. Blue Three was wallowing toward the same patch of landscape under full power.
Wager shouted a curse, but Holman had their mount under control. The nameless tank pivoted left like a wheeled vehicle whose back end had broken away, avoiding the combat car. They could see now that One-one had pulled up to keep from overrunning Tootsie Six.
Blue Three began to slide at a slight sideways angle down the ridge they’d just topped. The three cars ahead of them were firing wildly into the smoke and flying debris of the settlement.
Sparrow’s Blue One had just smashed a building. It pulled clear with the motion of an elephant shrugging during a dust bath.
“All Mike—T-tootsie elements,” came a voice that a mask on the main screen would identify (if Wager wondered) as Blue One, used to his old callsign. “Mines! Mines!”
“Blue Three!” snarled Captain Ranson. “Lay the bloody charge! Now!”
If the bitch wanted to trade jobs, she could take this cursed panzer and all its cursed hardware! She could take it and shove it up her ass!
It wasn’t that Hans Wager had never used a mine-clearing charge before. On a combat car, though, they were special equipment bolted to the bow skirts and fired manually. All the tanks were fitted with integral units, controlled by the AI. So. . . .
“Booster,” Wager ordered crisply. “Clearance charge.”