“Via, kid!” Ortnahme said, almost choking on his swollen tongue. He’d bitten the bloody hell out of it as he struggled. “Will you shut yer bleedin’ trap?”
Flamethrower roared as it moved onto the water.
“If I ever have a son,” Ortnahme shouted over the fan noise, “I’ll name the little bastard Simkins!”
Chapter Eleven
“I thought,” said Dick Suilin, looking down at the silent trench line as Flamethrower accelerated past, “that we’d have to fight our way out of la Reole, too.”
It must have rained recently, because ankle-deep mud slimed the bottom of the trench. Two bodies lay face down in it. Their black uniforms smoldered around the holes chewed by shell fragments.
The bruises beneath Suilin’s armor itched unbearably. “I wonder what my sister’s doing,” he added inconsequently.
“The Consies were just tacking the west bank down,” Cooter said, his eyes on his multi-function display. “Nothin’ serious.”
“Nothin’ that wasn’t gonna run like rabbits when the shells hit—thems as could,” Gale interjected with a chuckle.
“All their heavy stuff this side of the river,” the lieutenant continued, “that’s at Kohang.”
He shrugged. “Where we’ll find it quick enough, I guess.”
“Where’s your sister?” Gale asked. The veteran gunner poked a knifepoint into the crust around the ejection port of his tribarrel. Jets of liquid nitrogen were supposed to cool and expel powergun rounds from the chambers after firing. A certain amount of the plastic matrix remained gaseous until it condensed on the outside of the receiver, narrowing the port.
Suilin unlatched his body armor and began rubbing the raw skin over his ribs. His fatigue shirt was sweaty, but the drenching in salt spray from the estuary seemed to have made the itch much worse.
“She’s in Kohang,” the reporter said. It was hard to remember what he’d said to whom about his background, about Suzette. “She’s married to Governor Kung.”
The past two days were a blur of gray and cyan. Maybe fatigue, maybe the drugs he was taking against the fatigue.
Maybe the way his life had been turned inside out, like the body of the Consie guerrilla his tribarrel had centerpunched. . . .
“Whoo-ie!” Gale chorted. “Well, if that’s who she is, I sure hope she don’t mind meetin’ a few good men. Er a few hundred!”
The reporter went cold.
Cooter reached over and took Gale’s jaw between a big thumb and forefinger. “Shut up, Windy,” he said. “Just shut the fuck up, all right?”
“Sorry,” muttered the wing gunner to Suilin. He brushed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Look, the place’s still holdin’, far as we know. We’ll get there, no sweat.”
He nodded to Cooter. “Anything on your box, El-tee?”
“Nothing yet. Junebug’ll report in pretty quick, I guess.”
The task force was moving fast in the open country between la Reole and Kohang further up the coast. A clump of farm buildings stood beneath an orchard-planted hillside two kilometers away.
Suilin found it odd to be able to see considerable distances with his normal eyesight. He felt as though he’d crewed Flamethrower all his life, but this was the first time he’d been aboard the combat car during daylight.
Almost daylight. The sun was still beneath the horizon. His fingertips massaged his ribs.
“You okay?” Gale asked unexpectedly.
“Huh?” Suilin said. He looked down at his bruises. “Oh, yeah. I—the armor, last night a bullet hit it.”
He saw Gale’s eyes widen in surprise a moment before he realized the cause. “Oh,” he corrected. “I mean the night before. At Camp Progress. I lost track. . . .”
Cooter handed out ration bars. The reporter stared at his with loathing, remembering the taste of the previous one.
“Go ahead,” Cooter encouraged. “You need the calories. The Wide-awakes, they’ll keep you moving, but you need the fuel to burn anyhow.”
Suilin bit down, trying to ignore the flavor. This bar seemed to have been compressed from muck at the bottom of the estuary.
The two tankers they’d rescued wanted to stay together, so Cooter had transferred them both to One-six. The vehicles of Task Force Ranson were fully crewed at the moment—over-crewed, in fact.
Dick Suilin had seen at Adako Beach how quickly a short burst could wipe out the crew of a combat car. Without the firepower of the two tanks lost at la Reole . . .