The road was outlined in flames over which smoke and ash swept like a dancer’s veils. Molten spatters lifted by the tank cannon cooled visibly as they fell. There was no return fire or sign of Consies.
There were no structures left in what had been a community of several thousand.
The tank beside Flamethrower shrugged like a dog getting ready for a fight. Dust and ash puffed from beneath it again, this time sternward.
“Hang on, turtle!” a voice crackled in Suilin’s ears as Flamethrower began to build speed with the deceptive smoothness characteristic of an air cushion vehicle.
Suilin gripped his tribarrel and tried to see something–anything—over the ghost-ring sight of the weapon. The normal holographic target display wasn’t picked up by his visor’s thermal imaging. The air stank of ozone and incomplete combustion.
The car rocked as its skirts clipped high spots and debris flung from the buildings. The draft of Flamethrower’s fans and passage shouldered the smoke aside, but there was still nothing to see except hot rubble.
Cooter and Gale fired, their bursts producing sharp static through Suilin’s headset. The helmet slipped back and forth on the reporter’s forehead.
In desperation, Suilin flipped up his visor. Glowing smoke became black swirls, white flames became sullen orange. The bolts from his companions’ weapons flicked the scene with an utter purity of color more suitable for a church than this boiling inferno.
Suilin thumbed his trigger, splashing dirt and a charred timber with cyan radiance. He fired again, raising his sights, and saw a sheet of metal blaze with the light of its own destruction.
They were through the settlement and slowing again. There were armored vehicles on either side of Flamethrower. Gale fired a last spiteful burst and put his weapon on safe.
Suilin’s hands were shaking. He had to grip the pivot before he could thumb the safety button.
It’d been worse than the previous night. This time he hadn’t known what was happening or what he was supposed to do.
“Tootsie Six to all Tootsie elements,” said the helmet. “March order, conforming to Blue One. Execute.”
The vehicles around them were moving again, though Flamethrower held a nervous, greasy balance on its fans. They’d move out last again, just as they had when Task Force Ranson left the encampment.
Minutes ago.
“How you doing, turtle?” Lieutenant Cooter asked. He’d raised his visor also. “See any Consies?”
Suilin shook his head. “I just . . .” he said. “I just shot, in case. . . . Because you guys were shooting, you know?”
Cooter nodded as he lifted his helmet to rub his scalp. “Good decision. Never hurts t’ keep their heads down. You never can tell. . . .”
He gazed back at the burning waste through which they’d passed.
Suilin swallowed. “What’s this ‘turtle’ business?” he asked.
Gale chuckled through his visor.
Cooter smiled and knuckled his forehead again. “Nothin’ personal,” the big lieutenant said. “You know, you’re fat, you know? After a while you’ll be a snake like the rest of us.”
He turned.
“Hey,” the reporter said in amazement. “I’m not fat! I exercise—”
Gale tapped the armor over Suilin’s ribs. “Not fat there, turtle,” the reflective curve of the veteran’s visor said. “Newbie fat, you know? Civilian fat.”
The tank they’d followed from Camp Progress began to move. “Watch your arcs, both of you,” Cooter muttered over the intercom. “They may have another surprise waiting for us.”
Suilin’s body swayed as the combat car slipped forward. He still didn’t know what the mercenaries meant by the epithet.
And he was wondering what had happened to all the regular inhabitants of Happy Days.
“Go ahead, Tootsie,” said the voice of Slammer Six, hard despite all the spreads and attentuations that brought it from Firebase Purple to June Ranson’s earphones. “Over.”
“Lemme check yer shoulder,” said Stolley to Janacek beside her. “C’mon, crack the suit.”
“Roger,” Ranson said as she checked the positioning of her force in the multi-function display. “We’re OK, no casualties, but there was an ambush at the strip settlement just out the gate.”
Blue One was ghosting along 200 meters almost directly ahead of Warmonger at sixty kph. That was about the maximum for an off-road night run, even in this fairly open terrain.