Simkins eased them to a halt just short of the bridge approach. Cooter’s blower was making the run—the walk, rather—and bleedin’ Lord ‘n martyrs, how the Hell did they expect that ruin to hold a tank?
The near span rippled to the rhythm of Flamethrower’s fans, and the span beyond the crumbling central support towers still danced with the weight of the car that’d crossed minutes before. This was bloody crazy!
The Yokels guarding the bridge must’ve thought so too, from the way they stared in awe at Herman’s Whore.
Ortnahme, hidden in the tank’s belly, glared at their holographic images. They’d leaned their buzzbomb launchers against the sandbagged walls of their bunker.
Hard to believe that ten-kilo missiles could really damage something with the size and weight of armor of Herman’s Whore, but Henk Ortnahme believed it. He’d rebuilt his share of tanks after they took buzzbombs the wrong way—and, regretfully, had combat-lossed others when the cost of repair would exceed the cost of buying a new unit in its place.
There were costs for crew training and, less tangibly, for the loss of experience with veteran crewmen; but those problems weren’t in Ortnahme’s bailiwick.
“Sir?” the intercom asked. “The . . . you know, the guns they been hitting this place with. Wasn’t that a, you know, an awful lot?”
“Don’t worry about it, kid,” the warrant leader said smugly. “Our only problem now’s this bloody bridge.”
Ortnahme adjusted his main screen so that the panorama’s stern view was central rather than being split between the two edges. The shattered bunkers were hidden by the same buildings that’d protected the bridge from Consie gunfire. Smoke, turgid and foul, covered the western horizon.
“Ah, sir?” Simkins said. “What I mean is, you know, we been fighting guerrillas, right? But all this heavy stuff, this was like a war.”
A Yokel jeep jolted its way over the rubble pile in the wake of Task Force Ranson. The driver was young and looked desperately earnest. The Marine major who’d gestured in fury as Herman’s Whore swept into la Reole at the end of the Slammers’ column sat/stood beside the driver.
The officer was covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief in his left hand while his right gripped the windshield brace to keep his ass some distance in the air. The jeep could follow where air cushions had taken the Slammers, but the wheeled vehicle’s suspension and seat padding were in no way sufficient to make the trip a comfortable one.
“This war’s been goin’ on for bloody years, kid,” Ortnahme explained.
His thumb rotated the panorama back to its normal orientation. Bad enough watching the bridge sway, without having the screen’s image split Flamethrower right down the middle that way.
“They got, the Consies, they been hauling stuff outta the Enclaves all that time, sockin’ it away. Bit by bit till they needed it for that last big push. All that stuff—” Ortnahme nodded toward the roiling destruction behind them, though of course the technician couldn’t see the gesture “—that means the Consies just shot their bolt.”
Ortnahme scratched himself beneath the edge of his armor and chuckled. “Course, it don’t mean they didn’t hit when they shot their bloody bolt.”
Cooter’s blower had just reached the far end of the bridge—safely, Via! but this tank weighed five, six, times as much—when the image on the main screen changed sharply enough to recall the warrant leader from his grim attempt to imagine the next few minutes.
Though Herman’s Whore pretty well blocked the bridge approach, the driver of the Yokel jeep managed to slide around them with two wheels off on the slope of the embankment. As the jeep gunned its way back onto the concrete, its image filled a broad swath of Ortnahme’s screen.
What the bloody Hell?
The major threw down his makeshift dust filter, rose to his full height, and began to shout and gesture toward the tank. The young Marines at the bunker beside Herman’s Whore snapped to attention—eyes front, looking neither toward the tank nor their screaming officer.
Ortnahme could’ve piped the Yokel’s words in through a commo circuit, scrubbed of all the ambient noise. Thing was, whatever the fellow was saying, it sure as hell wasn’t anything Warrant Leader Henk Ortnahme wanted to hear.
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