“Tootsie Six, over!” she said sharply. Her skin tingled, and all her body hairs were standing up straight.
There was a burst of static from her headset, but no response.
“Tootsie Six, over,” she repeated.
Nothing but carrier hum.
Ranson craned her neck to look upward, past the splinter shield. There was a bright new star in the eastern sky, but it was fading even as she watched.
For fear of retribution, the World Government had spared the Slammers’ recon and comsats when they swept the Yokels’ own satellites out of orbit. When Alois Hammer raised the stakes, however, the Terrans stayed in the game.
“Now a little Sprayseal,” Stolley muttered, “and we’re done. Easier ‘n bitchin’, ain’t it?”
Task Force Ranson was on its own now.
But they’d been on their own from the start. Troops at the sharp end were always on their own.
“Awright, then latch me up, will ya?” Janacek said. Then, “Hey, Stolley. When ya figure we get another chance t’ kick butt?”
Warmonger howled through the darkness.
Chapter Seven
“I think it’s a little tight now,” Suilin said, trying gingerly to lift the commo helmet away from his compressed temples.
“Right,” said Cooter. “Now pull the tab over the left ear. Just a cunt hair.”
“Time t’ stoke the ole furnaces,” said Gale, handing something small to Cooter while the reporter experimented with the fit of his helmet.
When Suilin drew down on the tab as directed, the helmet lining deflated with an immediate release of pressure. It felt good—but he didn’t want the cursed thing sliding around on his head, either; so maybe if he pulled the right tab again, just a—
“And one for you, buddy,” Gale said, offering Suilin a white-cased stim cone about the size of a thumbnail. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Dick,” the reporter said. “Ah—what’s this?”
Cooter set the base of his cone against the inner side of his wrist and squeezed to inject himself. “Wide-awakes,” he said. “A little something to keep you alert. Not much of a rush, but it beats nodding off about the time it all drops in the pot.”
“Like Tootsie Six,” Gale said, thumbing forward with a grin.
The front of the column was completely hidden from Flamethrower. Task Force Ranson had closed to fifty-meter separations between vehicles as soon as they entered the forest, but even Blue Two, immediately ahead of them, had been only a snorting ambiance for most of the past hour.
“Junebug’s problem ain’t she’s tired,” Cooter said with a grimace. “She’s . . .” He spun his finger in a brief circle around his right ear. “It happens. She’ll be okay.”
“But won’t this . . . ?” Suilin said, rolling the stim cone between his fingers. “I mean, what are the side effects?”
As a reporter, he’d seen his share and more of burn-outs, through his business and in it.
Cooter shrugged. “After a couple days,” the big man said, raising his arm absently to block a branch swishing past his gunshield, “it don’t help any more. And your ears ring like a sonuvabitch about that long after. Better ‘n getting your ass blown away.”
“Hey,” said Gale cheerfully. “Promise me I’ll be around in a couple days and I’ll drink sewage.”
Suilin set the cone and squeezed it. There was a jet of cold against his skin, but he couldn’t feel any other immediate result.
Flamethrower broke into open terrain, a notch washed clean when the stream below was in spate. The car slid down the near bank, under control but still fast enough that their stern skirts sparked and rattled against the rocky soil. Water exploded in a fine mist at the bottom as Rogers goosed his fans to lift the car up the far side. They cleared the upper lip neatly, partly because the bank had already been crumbled into a ramp by the passage of earlier vehicles.
Blue Two had been visible for a moment as the tank made its own blasting run up the bank. Now Flamethrower was alone again, except for sounds and the slender-boled trees through which the task force pushed its way.
“Lord, why can’t this war stop?” Dick Suilin muttered.