Santana saw the change on the ITC and grinned as the wall of black smoke gradually blew toward the south. “This is Alpha Six. Let’s hook the bastards! Out.” Everyone in the company knew what Santana meant, because the “buffalo horns”
formation dated back to the Zulu War of 1879, and involved the use of fl?anking elements or “horns” to at least partially encircle the enemy, while the “chest” or main force came up the middle. In this case, the main force consisted of two badly outgunned quads. Had Bravo Company been present there would have been four quads and something like parity. Still, it wasn’t as if Santana had a choice, given the fact that the bugs weren’t likely to surrender. As the Ramanthians rolled into the smoke, the fi?rst and second platoons circled around them, turned inwards, and immediately came into contact with the enemy’s APCs. The troops weren’t all that dangerous, not so long as they remained sealed inside their durasteel boxes, but the vehicles they were riding in carried grenade launchers and machine guns. The automatic weapons chattered madly as the T-2s entered a hellish world of drifting smoke, blazing guns, and fi?ery explosions. A place where Santana, like the bio bods all around him, was reduced to little more than baggage as Deker went to work. The key to survival inside the war fog was speed and agility. Deker cut between two dimly seen APCs, fi?ring both his fi?fty and energy cannon as he ran. The bullets failed to penetrate Ramanthian armor, but one of his energy bolts scored a direct hit on a track, which brought one machine to a halt.
In the meantime, even though Santana was being thrown back and forth like a sack of potatoes, it was his job to monitor the ITC and make sure that the melee didn’t get out of hand. “Watch for friendlies,” the company commander cautioned. “We have enough opposition without shooting at each other. Out.”
But the cautionary advice came too late for Private Steelgrip Cutright, who was decapitated by an energy bolt fi?red by Corporal Bin Han. So that, as Cutright’s T-2 continued to fi?ght, his headless body fl?opped back and forth, spewing blood in every direction. Nor was Cutright the company’s only casualty. Because some of the enemy APCs had discharged their troops by then, and bio bod Kai Hayasaki and cyborg Bin Batain both lost their lives when a shoulderlaunched missile struck them. Fortunately such incidents were rare thanks to all the smoke and the speed with which the T-2s could move.
But speedy or not, the smaller war forms had been unable to so much as scratch the Gantha tanks as the Ramanthians opened fi?re. The fi?rst rounds fell short of the quads but threw columns of dirt high into the air, which meant that the Seebos riding inside the quadrupeds could hear what sounded like a hailstorm as rocks and soil rained down on the metal above their heads. It didn’t take a genius to know that the big war form was being targeted, and that wasn’t fair. Not to Lieutenant-620’s way of thinking. Because having survived the horrors of the crater—the offi?cer felt that he and his men deserved something better than death in a metal box.
Of course, both Lupo and Xiong had been killed before, and had no intention of dying again, at least not so soon. So they answered the Ramanthian attack with a salvo of four heat-seeking missiles, followed by a blinding fusillade of energy bolts as all eight of their combined cannons began to fi?re. One of the enemy tanks exploded as two missiles hit it. A second lost a track, and began to turn circles, but there was no stopping the third. And that was scary, because as highexplosive rounds continued to go off around the quads, they both knew it was just a matter of time before one or both of them took a direct hit.
But only if they were stupid enough to attack the enemy head-on. Much had been written about the advantages and disadvantages inherent in the quad design, but there was one thing that no one could dispute, and that was the fact that the huge cyborgs could step sideways. Something tracked vehicles couldn’t do.
So the quads began to move away from each other—
thereby forcing the Ramanthian tank commander to choose between two targets. And, with each step they took, the quads could see more and more of the Gantha’s sloped fl?anks, where the machine’s reactive armor was slightly thinner. Then, when a suffi?cient amount of black metal was visible, the legionnaires loosed another salvo of missiles. The weapons hit, punched their way through the Ramanthian armor, and sent jets of hot plasma into the crew compartments. A powerful secondary explosion sent the Gantha’s turret soaring high into the air. It seemed to hang there for a moment, as if held aloft by an invisible hand, before falling on a burning APC. It was an important accomplishment. Because now, with the tanks out of the way, there was nothing to prevent the legionnaires from attacking the STO emplacement. But before Santana could give the necessary orders an all-too-familiar voice fl? ooded his helmet. “This is Zulu Six. Hold where you are. I’m three minutes north of you and I’ll be there shortly. Out.”
Santana turned toward the north and saw that a shuttle was coming in low and fast. Where had Quinlan been anyway? “This is Alpha Six,” Santana said. “Platoon leaders will reintegrate their forces, check for casualties, and rearm their T-2s. Lieutenant Seebo-620. I would be obliged if you and your men would establish a temporary perimeter around the company and provide security. Out.”
There was a series of acknowledgments as the clones exited the quads, and the T-2s were ordered to close with the quadrupeds, so they could take on ammo from the larger war forms. Meanwhile, the shuttle had put down. Quinlan and his T-2 were the fi?rst to disembark. Bravo Company’s quads followed, along with two platoons of T-2s, and a technical support unit. “Sorry we’re late,” Quinlan said, as the two men came together. “Our shuttle developed engine trouble after we hit the atmosphere, and we were forced to put down so the swabbies could clear it. But we’re here now—and the mission remains the same.”
Even though the T-2s were only three feet apart from each other, they weren’t privy to the conversation that was taking place on the command channel. “Roger that, sir,” Santana replied. “We can use the help. And we need to get under way quickly—before the enemy can reinforce their defenses.”
“There’s no need to belabor the obvious,” Quinlan responded irritably. “Tell your people that the attack will commence in fi?ve minutes.”
Santana nodded. “Sir, yes sir.”
There was an awkward pause at that point, as if the battalion offi?cer wanted to say something more, but wasn’t sure how to do so. Finally, having swiveled his body toward the bloody LZ where Alpha Company had put down, Quinlan spoke without looking back. “And Santana. . . .”
“Sir?”
“Well done.”
Santana was surprised, but managed a nod. “Thank you, sir. I’ll pass that along.”
“See that you do,” Quinlan said curtly as he turned back, and his normal persona reasserted itself. “Thirty seconds of that fi?ve minutes have elapsed. You’d better get cracking.”
Meanwhile, ten miles to the south and high atop the dam where the Ramanthian STOs were sited, Force Commander Rundee Homar stood atop a huge gun mount as he peered through a pair of Y-shaped binoculars. Having twice failed to put a signifi?cant number of troops on ground, the animals had fi?nally been able to land a company of grotesque cyborgs. And now, having been reinforced by air, the abominations were preparing to attack the STO emplacement. Which, given the way they had defeated the tanks, was doomed. Or that’s how it seemed
