“If the battalion is allied with the Conservative Action Movement, it will threaten the rear of Task Force Ranson as the task force performs its mission of breaking through hostile forces encircling the Governmental Compound in Kohang.”
The sense of glacial well-being reached Suilin’s fingertips. His hands stopped shaking.
Probably not exotic. The Lord only knew how many worlds, how many life-forms, these scarred veterans had seen uncaring on their career of slaughter for money. . . .
“The loyalty of the battalion must first be ascertained. If hostile, the force must be engaged and neutralized before Task Force Ranson proceeds with its primary mission.”
“Thirty bloody tanks,” Cooter whispered.
“We will proceed as follows. First, I will inform the armored battalion that we have received heavy casualties and have taken refuge in the settlement of Kawana.”
“Even bloody Yokel tanks. . . .”
“Blue three—”
Hans Wager’s head jerked up. You can only stay scared for so long. Ranson’s clop-clop mechanical delivery had bored him, so his attention had been on the holographic plan of a Yokel tank he’d called up on Screen Three.
“—will take a position north of Kawana, behind Chin Peng Rise.”
“Roger, Tootsie Six,” Wager said, suddenly afraid that he’d actually fallen asleep and missed some crucial part of the Operations Order.
“Set your sensors for maximum sensitivity,” Ranson’s voice continued without noticeable emotion. “You will supply the precise location and strength of the other force. In event the force proves hostile, you will be the blocking element to prevent them breaking out to the north.”
“Roger, Tootsie Six,” Wager repeated in a whisper.
They didn’t operate with Yokel armor—the difference in speed was too great, and the mercenaries had a well-justified concern about the fire discipline of the local forces in general.
Still, Wager’d looked over Yokel tanks out of curiosity. Memories echoed in his mind when his eyes rested on the holographic image.
“We can expect the other force to continue their approach from due south,” Ranson’s bored, boring voice continued. “Tootsie Three, you’ll command the eastern element. Proceed with your blower and One-six clockwise from Chin Peng Rise, around Kawana by Hull Creek and Raider Camp Creek. Stay out of sight. Wait at the head of Raider Camp Creek, a kilometer east of Sugar Knob to the south of Kawana.”
Via, thirty of them. If it wasn’t thirty-five.
Or forty-four, despite Blue Two’s scorn of the Yokel’s ability to keep their hardware operational.
Each tank weighed sixteen point eight tonnes. They were track-laying vehicles with five road-wheels per side and the drive sprocket forward. Steel/ceramic sandwich armor. Diesel engine on the right side, opposite the driver. A two-man turret with either a high-velocity 60mm automatic cannon or a 130mm howitzer.
Lighweight vehicles, designed for the particular needs of the National Army in a guerrilla war that might at any moment burst into pitched battles with a foe equipped by the Terran World Government.
Nothing Wager’s panzer couldn’t handle, one on one. Nothing a combat car couldn’t handle, one on one.
Thirty. Or thirty-five. Or more.
“I will command the western element,” Ranson said coolly. “Cars One-one, One-three, and One-five. We’ll circle Kawana by Upper Creek and wait a kilometer west of Sugar Knob until the intentions of the other force become clear.”
A shaped-charge round from the 130mm howitzer moved too fast for the close-in defense system to knock it down. A direct hit could penetrate the armor of a Slammers’ tank.
The 60mm guns fired either high-explosive shells or armor-piercing shot. A single tungsten-carbide shot wouldn’t penetrate Blue Three’s hull or turret armor. Three hitting the same point might. Twelve on the same point would penetrate.
The clip-loaded 60mm cannon could cycle twelve rounds in twelve seconds.
“Blue Three,” Ranson said, “if the other battalion is hostile, we will need precise data on enemy dispositions before we launch our counterattack. This may require that you move into the open so that your sensors are unmasked. Do you understand?”
“Roger, Tootsie Six.”
Hans Wager’s hands were wiping themselves slowly against his pants legs. The rhythmic, unconscious gesture dried his palms for less than the time it took for his arms to move back and start the process again.