Smith’s forehead was wrinkled. “I’m not following you, Lieutenant.”
“If one of those knolls out there was more strongly defended than any other, what would you suspect?”
“That’s where the scrambler was.”
“And if one knoll had no men around it all…”
Smith got it. “You mean the old bastard is trying to fox us by having that damn thing stuck up somewhere with nobody at all in the vicinity?”
“It’s worth thinking about.”
Luke came up with the glasses and handed them to Smith and Bat. They began to scan the vicinity slowly, carefully.
Bat murmured, “It would probably be one of the higher knolls, and one not too very far away. They planned this down to the last detail. They maneuvered us out into this field, as though we were sheep. They knew exactly where we’d have to go. And that scrambler was all set up and waiting for us when we arrived.”
Jeff Smith said, “There it is, Lieutenant.” He pointed. “I can just barely make out an antenna, or whatever it is.”
Bat Hardin directed his glasses. “You’re right. Okay, Sergeant. It’s you and me.”
Smith looked at him. “Just the two of us? Wouldn’t it make more sense if we took a hundred of the best men and headed for that knoll on the double?”
Bat shook his head. “My converted police car is the only armored vehicle in town and it’s a two-seater. We have, in short, the equivalent of a tank. Can you operate an Am-8?”
“The Chinese automatic? Sure, why not?”
“Get Art Clarke’s from him and both clips of ammo. I’ll meet you at my car.”
Jeff Smith took off and Bat Hardin called to Al Castro, “Al, let me have your Gyro-jet pistol.”
Al handed it over. Bat Hardin checked the magazine, jacked a 9mm rocket cartridge into the barrel. He stuck the gun in his belt, then brought forth his own identical weapon and checked and loaded it. Then he went over to his car, located spare 9mm rocket shells and dropped them into his side pocket. He took up his carbine and filled the magazine to capacity.
“Jesus,” Al said. “You look like Billy the Kid with all that artillery.”
Bat said, “Al, get together our best half dozen marksmen. That knoll out there looks as though nobody at all is around. There’s nobody firing from the top or anything. However, I’ll bet my left arm that they’ve got a sizable defending force behind it, keeping hidden. Jeff and I are going to need all the covering fire we can get.”
“Got you,” Al said, moving off.
A dozen of the men who had been digging now stood around, popeyed at what Bat was planning.
Manuel Chauvez, shovel in hand, said, “Mr. Hardin, for sure, you are not going out there into all that fire?”
“Somebody’s got to go, or we’ll unlikely see tomorrow,” Bat growled to the Armanruder’s servant. “Come on, Sergeant. The delta was never like this.”
“Thank the good Lord,” Jeff Smith muttered. “It was bad enough.” He had Art Clarke’s automatic rifle under his arm and was stuffing the spare magazine into a side pocket. He climbed into the seat next to Bat’s driver position.
Smith looked out over the terrain unhappily and said, “You think you can make it over that? You’d need at least a four-wheel drive.”
Bat grinned. “I’ve got secrets in this buggy.” He dropped the conversion lever, activated the air cushion and the vehicle rose a foot off the ground. He recessed the wheels and yelled out the window, “Luke, get that crate of yours out of the way.”
“I’ll be damned; a little old hover-car,” Smith said.
Bat nodded while Luke hurried to get his electro-steamer and mobile home out of the way so that the two volunteers could leave the perimeter.
Bat was saying, “They’ve got a lot of shortcomings but for certain specialized uses you can’t beat the air cushion. Ordinarily they aren’t practical for a vehicle of this size. Too small. Consume power like crazy. Can’t propel them very fast, either, or your vehicle will over-run your air cushion. It’s got to have time to get out in front of the skirt, or the whole shebang starts nosing in.”
Luke yelled, “Okay, Bat!”
The police car, now air-cushion borne, flowed ahead. Immediately, slugs began to bounce off in screaming ricochet.
“Holy smokes,” Bat bit out. “You’d think they were waiting for us. Keep your window up until we get on the scene. Bulletproof glass. They’d have to have anti-tank shells to knock us off.”
Smith said, “They don’t need anti-tank shells, they’ve got that goddamned bazooka.”
“Ummm,” Bat said distastefully, beginning to zig and zag in evasive action. “But I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that the boys operating it aren’t exactly crackshots. Who in the hell knows how to fire a bazooka in this day and age? It’s one thing sitting pat and directing it at something as big as New Woodstock. But a target this small and on the move?”
“I hope you’re right, Lieutenant,” the other said dryly.
The knoll was perhaps three hundred meters away. Al’s marksmen were going to have to be on their merit to do much in the way of covering. However, any fire at all was better than none, just so it didn’t hit Bat or Jeff Smith.
Bat kept the car at as high a speed as was consistent with the terrain and their air cushions, but they were doing fifty kilometers an hour at best. Occasional bullets continued to rain off their armor but thus far there had been no stirring of opponents on the knoll which was their destination. Bat began to wonder if they had guessed wrong. But no, it was more than a guess, the closer they got the more obvious was the antenna, stretching its evil feelers up into the sky, robbing them of contact with the outside world.
As they got nearer it became obvious that the car would never make it up to the summit.
Bat groaned, “These things are impossible on non-horizontal surfaces. They slip off in every direction except the one you want to go.”
Jeff Smith bit out, “Get as far up as you can and then cover me. I’ll make a run for it.”
“Why not me?”
Smith said, “Because you know how to drive this contraption and I don’t.”
“All right.”
Just as they hit the bottom of the slope, a half dozen Mexicans materialized at the summit and began firing down at them in great excitement.
Smith muttered, “Amateurs!” and activated the window. He steadied the Chinese automatic rifle on the sill and let loose a sweeping burst. Several went down, screaming pain, the others ducked for cover.
Jeff Smith was out of the car, gun in hand and. zigzagging up to the crest.
“Go it!” Bat yelled. He popped from the side of the car, both Gyro-jet pistols in his hands.
Jeff Smith scrambled, slid, fell, was on his feet again. Up he went.
At the top, one of the Mexicans who had fallen got to his knees. He was holding some sort of automatic weapon with which Bat Hardin was unfamiliar. It stuttered and Jeff Smith fell off to the side and to the ground.
Bat fired twice and brought the gunner down. He started up the hill after his companion. From the perimeter of the mobile homes came a hail of supporting fire, sweeping the top of the small mesa.
Bat Hardin went to the smaller man. He jammed his pistols into his belt, swearing uncontrollably. “Bad?” he snapped, reaching down.
Jeff Smith groaned, “Yeah. Nailed me at least twice. Belly.”
“Oh, Christ,” Bat groaned. He hiked the other up over his shoulder, reached down and swept up the automatic and started staggering and stumbling down the hill.
A blow struck him in the right hip and he all but fell.
“Hit?” Jeff Smith groaned.
“Yeah.”
He continued on, stumbling. He could feel the blood running down his leg.
They got to the car, on Smith’s side. Bat dumped him in, tossed the Chinese weapon in after him, then hurried around the car, limping, dragging his leg, to his own side. He lifted his right leg by grabbing hold of the cloth
