— 21 —
The skimmers could flit in to the survivors of the wreck and talk to them, calm them down, and secure a path for Bull's tanks. It made sense, even if it didn't feel good.
"Do it," Bull agreed. "November, Gulf, stand fast."
Around him the skimmers flitted silently off toward the wreckage. "Be ready to aid and engage," he added to the disgruntled tankers.
"We do the work, they get the honor," Dyer grumbled.
Flickers of cyan and blue-green light told Bull that his comrades were engaged in mixed fighting, the sort his tanks could do little to aid. He peered through his binoculars and searched the terrain. The wreck had fallen more to one side than the other, Bull saw. He realized that it must have landed on its tail and rolled to the right a bit as it failed to make an emergency landing. Lighter, more scattered wreckage to the left led him to believe that side had been sabotaged. Something moved over there!
Something vaguely familiar.
"Ennis, come up here," Bull called to his corporal. "Timmons, get out of that seat; we're going scouting."
"What?" Ennis exclaimed.
"You cover us," Bull ordered, unhooking his helmet from the comlink and hoisting up his sidearm. In front of him Timmons scrambled out of the driver's seat and pulled his own gun free.
"Ready to go, boss!" Timmons called brightly.
"Quietly," Bull reminded him. "I thought I saw something over there in the glen."
Moving away from the tanks, which dropped from view in a surprisingly short time, Bull found himself nervous and more hesitant. The tanker in him felt bare and vulnerable, like a turtle out of its shell, but the Slammer in him was curious enough to go on foot where his tank would announce his presence too soon. Suddenly he heard talk. Waving a hand to Timmons, Bull crouched down.
The voices came from a rag tag camp hidden among the trees. One of them was slick and oily. Bull had heard it only once before, but he knew the name instantly. A look back at Timmons told him that the driver, too, grasped the importance of their discovery. With deft hand signals learned from the clever Pete Smyth, Bull and Timmons moved around to two corners of their targets' position.
"They broke through, I'm telling you!" a voice was explaining. "They're here!"
"If they're here, where are their tanks?" the oily voice replied. "It's only a few skimmers, nothing to worry about," the voice added soothingly. "We'll soon have the rest of the tanks in our hands, and then we'll be able to destroy these scum and move on to Hammer's base!" There was triumph and gloating victory in the voice.
"I wouldn't say so, Colonel Jebbitt," Bull called out softly.
"What! Who's out there?" Two shots rang toward Bull's position, but he was no longer there. From his new position several yards to the right, Bull could see the dull gleam of Timmons's weapon as he held the enemy in his sights.
"Lieutenant Braddington Bromley, commander, Combat Group Foxtrot," Bull replied, after rolling away from another volley of shots. "I'm here for your surrender."
"Foxtrot!" Jebbitt snarled.
"Migod!" the other man hissed.
"Surrender, Colonel. You've got nothing left," Bull said.
"Hah! I've got your stinking regiment wiped out," Jebbitt jeered. "You surrender."
Distracted by the conversation, Bull was surprised when a horde of ragged infantry rushed past Timmons's position toward Jebbitt.
"Don't shoot, Greg!" Bull warned when he recognized the pongoes as those who had been aboard the wrecked transport.
The fracas was short and sharp. Jebbitt was struck over the head by one of the men. "Foxtrot," Bull identified himself to the group as he walked forward with his sidearm slung over his shoulder.
"Foxtrot?" one of the dirtied Slammers exclaimed. "Via, it is! Sergeant John Green, sir!" The man came to rigid attention and snapped off a precise salute. "Glad to see you!"
"Come out, Timmons," Bull called. From the forest beyond, Greg Timmons pulled himself out of his camouflage, to the surprise and amazement of the infantry who had just rushed Jebbitt's camp.
In the clearing Bull could see that there were only two of the enemy: Jebbitt and his aide. They looked weary, torn, and beaten. In spite of the lump on his head, Jebbitt rose to his feet, straightened his back, and proclaimed, "I demand to be treated according to the articles of war!"
He was struck in the back by a suspicious pongo. "Yeah, right," the man said to the fallen colonel. He raised his rifle butt for another blow, but Bull kicked the weapon away. A wild expression crossed the man's eyes, but then he looked away.
"You'll be tried," Bull said tightly, thinking of the plains of Tegara and the crags of Kiltoween. "You'll be tried by the gun!" As Bull raised his weapon to fire, a bolt pierced Jebbitt through the chest and burned it clean out.
"You!" Jebbitt whispered, staring into Bull's eyes. Then he arched his back and sagged into a crumpled mass of burnt flesh, the sightless eyes still fixed on Bull Bromley's face.
Bull couldn't see where the shot had come from. Through clenched teeth he said, "The pleasure should have been mine."
Turn to section 137.