"Everything but the furniture." Van Damm squirmed as the Simbas kicked open the cabin door. "Idiots! We left it unlocked. They'll break the hinges . . . ."
They waited, watched, listened as Jomo's men piled into the cabin, leaving only two men outside. Van Damm winced at the sound of shelves and benches being slammed around.
"I count a dozen," Brodski whispered. "They must've left the rest to guard the boat. How many do you figure we can pick off?"
"These two now, the others later." Van Damm shrugged. "If we wait 'til they come out, we can get their head honcho."
"Then how many, total?"
"Given what we've seen of their training . . ." Van Damm scratched his chin. "Three, maybe four. Then they'll wait awhile, come out in a big rush and shoot up the trees wherever they think we are."
Brodski grinned, calculating. "Give 'em a little longer to find nothing, then let's drop them when they come out."
"Deal," said Van Damm, casually drawing a bead on one of the outside men.
They waited until the cries and curses changed to the sound of furniture being smashed. Then the door opened again and the Simbas began filing out of the cabin. One of them snapped at the two outside men, pointed back toward the river and bellowed orders at the rest.
Bingo! thought Brodski. He shifted his rifle's aim, pulled the trigger, and dropped the boss Simba.
For an age-long second, the others stood in a rough circle and stared, drop-jawed, while their squad-leader jerked, folded and fell.
Then Van Damm took out two men together, one behind the other, with a single throat-shot.
"Not bad," Brodski whispered, aiming again.
At that point, the Simbas had the sense to either run back into the cabin or drop and pull up their stunners. Van Damm and Brodski got two more in the yard, though they couldn't be sure if the shots were clean kills, while the Simbas looked wildly around them for the source of the gunfire.
The survivors in the yard started crawling toward the cabin door, firing in all directions without concern for ammo expenditure. A few shots hit close to Brodski's and Van Damm's hidey-hole, and they ducked. The last survivor in the yard scrambled into the cabin, and the door slammed shut.
"Think they spotted us yet?"
"Maybe." Van Damm shrugged. "We got four kills, maybe three wounded."
"Good," said Brodski, slinging up his rifle. "Let's fade."
They backed a little deeper into the wood, then slipped laterally down the length of the cleared field, almost to its end, and took positions behind thick standing trees.
"More distance here," Van Damm grumbled. "Less visibility."
"Harder for them to pick us out, too." Brodski opened his pack and hauled out some homemade jerky. "We may as well relax until they get up nerve."
"Or they radio for help and the reinforcements come," Van Damm gloomed, accepting one of the meat-strips.
"I somehow doubt they'll send the whole reserve," Brodski considered, munching. "Gotta have enough left at the boat to make sure it doesn't go anywhere."
"We should wait, then." Van Damm gnawed thought-fully. "Let them come out, shoot at trees, get no response, mill around for awhile, then start breaking up into smaller packs."
Then we harass them." Brodski rolled onto his back and pulled his hat down over his eyes. "Wake me when they come out," he said, and promptly went to sleep.
". . . but they hadn't gone," Under-chief Pucey panted on with his report. "Shot at us when we moved into the field. Same thing again: disappeared when we returned fire, waited 'til we started to move, then shot us up again-always from a different quarter. We pulled back to the river, and they waylaid us in the woods. If you hadn't sent that second squad out-"
"Of course," said Jomo. "I head the racket on the radio."
"Good thing, Baas; we could've been pinned down there for God Knows how long. Must've been a dozen of 'em. They'd got ahead of us, somehow, in the woods . . . ." No point mentioning that he and Osgood had argued over whether to keep on toward the river in the face of that relentless sniping, or fall back to the farmhouse and wait for reinforcements. The sound and sight of approaching Simbas had settled the question. "We lost seven men, and there's ten wounded."
"We must take precautions. They will not catch us napping again."
Pucey threw a glance of silent appeal to Osgood, who cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Uh, Jomo, since we don't know how many settlers are involved, shouldn't we, uh, get reinforcements before proceeding?"
"Reinforcements?" Jomo's glower made the man take a step back. "Against how many dirt-farmers?" He picked up the marked satellite-map and shoved it under Osgood's nose. "Look! How much cleared land does that show? Scarcely enough for a dozen farms, if they support no more than four adults on any of them. Squatters, with nothing but whatever weapons they could sneak aboard the ships. Now just how much resistance do you think they're likely to put up?"
"Sir, they got seven of us." Osgood couldn't help sounding desperate.
"They caught you flat-footed because you weren't prepared. You will be from now on." Jomo sneered as he rolled up the map.
Osgood and Pucey traded bleak looks.
"No, we are not going to go back to Docktown, aborting this mission, just because a dozen farmers shot at you with a few leftover weapons. Now, I don't suppose you managed to collect much in the way of goods?"
Pucey shrugged, and solemnly held out one knapsack full of half-ripe cabbage tops. "That's all we got before they started shooting," he said.
"Janesfort, Janesfort," Brodski whispered into his radio. "They're coming on up the river, still keeping close to the west bank. Looks like they'll hit the next farm in another hour, maybe hour and a half."
"That's ours!" wailed a male voice, somewhere in the net.
"Everybody who can, take positions at Sam MacDonald's farm," said Jane, calm as ever through the static. "Thin the bastards some more. But be careful; they'll be wide-eyed and paranoid this time."
"Going now, Brodski out." He leaned around a tree to tap Van Damm's shoulder. "Time to hike again, down to Sam's for the next round."
". . . Simba bastards," Van Damm muttered, slinging up his rifle. "We could have eaten those cabbages in another week. After all the time I spent weeding them . . . ."
"Uhuh. They could've torched our cabin, too," Brodski considered. "Y'know, Vanny, I'm beginning to appreciate Jane's point of view about citizen-soldiers."
"One does tend to appreciate land one has worked on . . . ."
"Right. You go stiffen the resistance, Van, while I look up the captain."
Osgood had the dubious honor of leading the three-squad assault on the second farm, and he was determined not to make any incautious mistakes this time. He kept his radio on simultaneous transmit-and-send mode, never mind how that drained the batteries, and his stunner ready. His orders were simple: advance spread out in a line, nobody more than three meters apart or less than two, keep your eyes open, and shoot anything that moves.
Consequently, ten minutes after entering the deep, dark wood, his troops had shot two tree-hoppers and a red mole, and all hope of surprise was good and gone. Osgood, having nobody else to blame for this state of affairs, sighed and ordered the troops to pick up speed.
Van Damm had laid another neat surprise at the farm; once again the Simbas found nothing, no crops, livestock or people, but when they began their return they were ambushed. In the thick woods, the Simbas could find no targets. They hurried back to the boat, leaving four dead, carrying six wounded.
Jomo considered that, and ordered the expedition to proceed to the island. Foraging in the unlimited forest was just too dangerous. On the limited land of that river-island ahead, the pickings should be much safer.
At the Last Resort's best speed, he could be there in another turn at most.