but only by Fed standards. Anyway, I like him, and he isn't stalking me… sir!'
'Yeah, yeah,' Michael said with a grin. Ferreira's blossoming love affair with one of ENCOMM's operations staff was a soft target he and the rest of Widowmaker's crew enjoyed taking potshots at. 'Just call us in and get the mail.'
'Sir.'
Michael climbed Widowmaker's ramp to where Petty Officer Morozov was waiting. 'All set?'
'Yes, sir. It's one hell of a tight squeeze.'
Michael looked around Widowmaker's cargo bay; the brilliantly lit space had been stripped back to bare metal to accommodate its load: a containerized Hammer mobile air-defense battery. Michael shook his head in wonderment at the sight. Reportedly, the whole lot had been handed over to the NRA by a PGDF air-defense battalion when it deserted en masse to the NRA: radar, fire control and missile guidance computers, launchers, Gordian missiles, everything. He shook his head again, marveling at the NRA's ingenuity… and luck.
'It sure is,' he said, 'though I'll be glad to see the last of all this mass'-he patted one of the battery's scarred matte-green containers-'not to mention all those war-shot missiles. Makes me nervous, having all that Hammer ordnance onboard.'
'Shit, me, too, sir. Hope the buggers work the way they're supposed to.'
'They should. If there's one thing the Hammers are good at, it's building missiles. Close her up, Chief. We'll be moving in five minutes. Don't want to keep ENCOMM waiting.'
'Sir.'
Michael walked through the cargo bay and climbed the ladder to the flight deck. That was as far as he got, any further progress blocked by the enormous bulk of Chief Bienefelt engaged in what looked like a life-and-death struggle with a combat space suit, a struggle made harder by the cramped space. Assault lander flight decks were never designed with spacers as large as Bienefelt in mind.
'Jeez, Matti,' Michael said, hands up in a theatrical display of despair. 'What the hell are you doing?'
'I won't… bother to… get on, you sonofabitch, not you, sir, the suit… bother to answer that question, sir,' she muttered. 'Bloody thing… ah, that's it,' she said as her suit gave up the fight and flowed into place. 'Why the hell didn't it do that the first time?'
'I know the answer to that one, Chief, but-'
'A burning desire to live long enough to see retirement persuades you to silence?' Bienefelt said, grabbing her helmet from an overhead rack.
'About sums it up, yeah. Now, to be serious. The new cannon shells. I've seen the results from the test firings. What do you think?'
'Well, sir. In the end, one 30-mm cannon shell is much like any other.'
'That's true, but only because the Hammers stole the design from the same place we did, Matti.'
Bienefelt laughed. 'Please!' she said. 'We licensed it. The Hammers stole it, and why wouldn't they? When it comes to cannon, the Henschel HKS-30 is one of the all-time classics. The big problem's the propellant; the one the Hammers use is not as good as ours-it burns too slow-but it'll do. We've adjusted the fire-control system to compensate, so we'll be fine.'
'I agree. The Hammers are good at dumb ordnance. Right, time to go, I think.'
Suiting up, Michael squeezed his way past the seats of his crew and climbed into his seat. He crammed his helmet over his head and dropped it onto its neck ring, where it sealed with a soft ffffttt, and strapped in. Wriggling around in a futile attempt to get comfortable, he allowed the seat AI to flow crash-resistant foam around his combat space suit. He was ready; a quick scan of the system status boards confirmed that Widowmaker was, too.
'All stations, command. Suit integrity checks. Okay, let's go. Mother, clear to start the tow when ready.'
'Ready.'
With a series of shuddering lurches, Widowmaker started on its way down the tunnel. Michael turned to Ferreira. 'So, Lieutenant, your man get in touch?'
'Yes, sir,' Ferreira said, a touch tartly. 'He has. He's well, thanks for asking. So did one Trooper Anna Cheung Helfort, 120th NRA.'
'Well?' Michael demanded.
'Well what?' Ferreira asked, eyes wide open in innocent inquiry.
'You know what. Will you comm me her message or do I have to throw you off this lander?'
'And miss all the fun? Hell, no! Comming it to you.'
Michael scanned the vidmail, uncomfortably aware that this was not the time to think about Anna. He was relieved to discover nothing new, struck again by the look of grim determination on her face. That was a worry. With the 120th Regiment an integral part of Operation Tappet, it was clear that she had no intention of sitting back while others worked their butts off; Michael had spent a great deal of time and energy trying not to think what that might mean. He cursed under his breath and closed the message. Why, he wondered, was life so damn complicated? More to the point, why was Anna so damn stubborn?
Putting Anna out of his mind, he turned his focus back to the command plot. Tappet might have been the most complex operation ever put together by ENCOMM, but Widowmaker's part in it was straightforward: deliver the Gordian battery to the landing zone, take off, and provide air support for the NRA assault before making a fast run for home before the Kingfishers and their Alaric missiles arrived. Simple, straightforward, and he hated it because the Fed landers were leaving the field before the battle was over, leaving Anna and the rest of the NRA to hold Perdan against the inevitable-and always ferocious-Hammer counterattack.
'At launch position,' Mother said after what seemed like a lifetime trundling through a succession of limestone caves and laser-cut tunnels.
'Command, roger.' Michael said, scanning the cave mouth and the ground beyond for obstructions. 'Okay, we are clear to launch. Tac, do we have the feed from ENCOMM?'
'No sir, not yet.' Michael swore under his breath; the NRA's communications were a million light-years from what he was used to. 'Working on it,' Ferreira said, head down over her workstation. 'Hold on. Okay, we're in. Update's on the operations plot.'
Michael studied the plot before nodding his approval. Things were running well. Problem was, most NRA operations started off that way. The average PGDF trooper hated the NRA's trademark mix of suicidal bravery and animal ferocity; invariably it was enough to persuade them that discretion, not valor, was the order of the day. Already, the two diversionary attacks were well under way, leading elements of the NRA's ground assault already deep into the towns of Bretonville and Daleel, their PGDF defenders reeling back in confusion. That was the good news; the bad news was that the usual Hammer response was on its way: heavy ground-attack landers from Amokran carrying marines-tougher and better disciplined than even the best PGDF battalions-supported by Kingfishers from McNair spaceport.
Michael said a quiet prayer of thanks for the persistent refusal of the commanding general of marines to station his precious landers any closer to the Branxton front. General Baxter's bloody-mindedness was a priceless contribution to the NRA's war effort; the man should get a medal for it. Even so, things around Perdan were going to be difficult; the assault there was just getting under way, and he had to hope the Hammers were slow to work out that Perdan was the primary objective.
'Command, tac. Stand by launch. Ground crew is clear and safe. We're good to go.'
'Command, roger. Mother, you have control, weapons free. Faceplates down, everyone.'
With a subdued roar, Mother brought Widowmaker's main engines up to power, the air behind the lander dissolving into a maelstrom of flame-shot dust. She held the lander with the brakes for an instant before easing Widowmaker on its way.
The heavily loaded lander started to move, sluggishly at first, then gathering speed fast. Widowmaker moved out of the cave and into the gloom of a rain-soaked Commitment night. Shifting power to belly thrusters and deploying the wings, Mother drove the lander into the sky; the instant the lander was clear of the canyon, Mother transitioned it to winged flight, twin pillars of flame shredding the air behind Widowmaker while it accelerated hard into the night. Michael breathed easier as the speed built, the lander steadying in the race to get to Perdan before the Hammers sent Kingfishers to deal with it.
'Hatchet Two Four, Bushmaster Six,' Ferreira said. 'Airborne and nominal.'
'Bushmaster Six, Hatchet Two Four. Roger. Chopping TACON to Grapple Three Three. Over.'
