"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."
"Hatchet Two Four, roger. Chopping now. Two Four out."
"Command, tac," Ferreira said. "Perdan command, call sign Grapple Three Three, has tactical control."
It was a short ride. Swinging to starboard in a max-g turn that had the status board lighting up in protest, Mother chopped the power, easing the lander's nose skyward to let the speed bleed off, the foamalloy wings biting deep into the rushing air.
"One minute," Michael said. "Tac, confirm clear to land."
"Grapple Three Three confirms landing zone is clear," Ferreira said.
"Command approved to land," Michael said.
He peered at the holovid feed from the forward-facing holocams, eyes flicking to and from the threat plot while he waited for any response from the Hammers. There was nothing to see: the thick cloud over Perdan, the gray-black murk turning to white when Mother fired the belly thrusters, the lander easing down, breaking through the cloud seconds before it thumped down onto Perdan's municipal airport, the brakes screaming in protest while Mother brought the lander to walking speed before turning to follow Alley Kat and Hell Bent, shapeless black masses in the darkness.
"Where the fu-" Michael flinched when a stream of yellow-gold tracer fire wound its way lazily out of the darkness before whipping past Widowmaker's nose, the insult silenced with brutal ferocity by the lander's lasers. "Like I was saying," Michael continued, "where the hell is the NRA? Petty Officer Morozov."
"Sir?"
"Go take a look and make sure we keep the ramp up until I'm happy the area is secure."
Michael was beginning to worry. Widowmaker was not the lander it once had been: an elusive, fleeting shadow cloaked by its chromaflage skin and active stealth systems, flanked by decoys to confuse and mislead, orchestrating swarms of attack drones in an orgy of death and destruction across tens of square kilometers. The relentless pace of operations, a desperate shortage of spares to repair battle damage from too many near misses, and an increasing reliance on whatever ordnance the NRA could steal from the Hammers had seen to that. Now Widowmaker fought its battles the way ground-attack landers used to fight: up close and in person.
Michael's concern was well founded; the Kingfishers' targeting information came from the battlesat radars overhead, radars the AI controlling Widowmaker's stealth system was struggling to defeat. By now the Hammer commanders would know that there were three Fed landers squatting on Perdan airport's apron like big, fat sitting ducks. He shivered; Kingfishers were the least of his problems. The Hammers might be tempted to ignore the prohibition on using orbital kinetics to attack targets in towns and cities. Three Fed landers might be a target too tempting to resist even if it meant destroying much of Perdan, the enormous political cost a price worth paying. The thought that Hammer kinetics were being retasked to take the landers out chased yet more shivers across his skin. Come on, come on, he urged the absent NRAs.
He commed Sedova in Alley Kat. "Any luck?"
"No, sir," Sedova said. "How long do we wait?"
Michael blew out hard in frustration. "One more minute… no, wait." Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he decided. "We have to assume they're on their way," he said, "so ramps down. Start off-loading."
"You sure, sir?"
"No, but do it anyway. Widowmaker, out. Loadmaster, ramp down, start off-loading. Jayla?"
"Sir?"