Veterans don’t like to be called down by their new CO. But veterans screw up too, just like newbies . . . just like COs who drift in and out of an electronic non-world, where the graders snarl but don’t shoot.
Ranson thought she heard the aircraft’s engine over the howl of Warmonger’s fans and the constant slap of branches against their hull. That was impossible.
“Six, it’s friendly!” Sparrow called, echoing the relayed information that flashed on the display which in turn cross-checked the opinion of the combat car’s own electronics. And they could all be wrong, but—
The aircraft was friendly. Its data dump started.
Maps and numerals scrolled across the display, elbowing one another aside as knowledge became chaos by its volume. Ranson was so focused on her attempt to sort the electronic garbage with a combat car’s inadequate resources that she didn’t notice the drone when it passed overhead a few seconds later.
The Slammers’ reconnaissance drones were slow, loping along at less than a thousand kph instead of sailing around the globe at a satellite’s ninety-minute rate. On the other hand, no satellite could survive in a situation where the enemy had powerguns and even the very basic fire-direction equipment needed to pick up a solid object against the vacant backdrop of interstellar space.
Stolley whispered inaudibly as the drone flicked past, barely visible against the slats of the trees. The aircraft had a long, narrow-chord wing mounted high so as not to interfere with the sensors in its belly.
The drone’s high-bypass turbofan sighed rather than roared, and the exhaust dumped from its twin outlets was within fifty degrees C of ambient. Except for the panels covering the sensor bays, the plastic of the wings and fuselage absorbed radio—radar—waves, and the material’s surface adapted its mottled coloration to whatever the background might be.
Task Force Ranson could still have gulped the drone down with the ease of a frog and a fly. The Consies operating here weren’t nearly as sophisticated—
And that was good, because even a cursory glance at the downloaded data convinced June Ranson that the task force was cold meat if it continued along the course she’d planned originally.
Information wriggled on her multi-function display. Task Force Ranson didn’t have a command car, but the electronics suite of one of the panzers would do about as well. . . .
“Blue One,” she ordered, “how close is the nearest clearing where we can laager for—half an hour? Six over.”
That should be time enough. There were wounded in One-six to deal with besides. Cooter could shift crews while she—
“Six,” said Sparrow in his usual expressionless voice, “there’s a bald half a kay back the way we came. It’ll give us a clear shot over two-seventy, maybe three-hundred degrees. Blue One over.”
“Roger, Blue One,” Ranson said. Weighing the alternatives, knowing that the grader would demonstrate that any decision she made was the wrong one, because there are no right decisions in war.
Knowing also that there is no decision as bad as no decision at all.
“All Tootsie elements,” her voice continued, “halt and prepare to reverse course.”
Warmonger bobbed, its fan chuffing as Willens tried to scrub off momentum smoothly while his eyes darted furiously over the display showing his separation from the huge tanks before and behind him.
“Tootsie, One-two, lead on the new course as displayed.” Better to have a tank as a lead vehicle, but there wasn’t much chance of trouble here in the boonies, and it was only half a kilometer. . . .
Warmonger touched the ground momentarily, then began to rotate on its axis. A twenty-centimeter treebole, thick for this area, this forest, this planet, obstructed the turn. Willens backed them grudgingly to the altered course.
Anyway, she wasn’t sure she wanted Blue Two leading. Ortnahme didn’t have much field experience either.
“We’ll laager on the bald. Break. Blue Three, I’ll be borrowing your displays. I want you to take over my position while we’re halted. Over.”
“Roger, Tootsie Six. Blue Three out.”
“All Tootsie elements, execute new course. Tootsie Six out.”
She’d get an eighty percent for that. Down on reversing, down on halting, down on not swapping Cooter’s combat car for one of the panzers. But she’d be down on those points whichever way she’d chosen. . . .