would be facing elite troops, elite armored units. In tank battle the first
shot was often the last.
“All right, you’re not too bad with stationary targets,” Stone said after they’d blasted various structures into nonexistence.
“Unfortunately none of the bastards we’re going to be fighting will be stationary. So now we’ll try some mobile firing. Drivers,
in combat situations the gunner takes command. You listen to him.” They started forward, Stone in the lead, going through
desolate flatlands with the fields of cacti and anthills off to their left. “Black cactus with three arms at a half mile,”
Stone yelled into the mouthpiece. Within seconds both gunners had found the target, and their cannons erupted almost simultaneously.
One of the shells crashed down about ten yards past, the second just a yard or so in front.
“Again,” Stone screamed. “You missed—that’s a tank—he’s going to blow your ass up. Take that motherfucker out. Fire, and don’t
stop until—” But he hadn’t even finished his harangue when both barrels screamed out tongues of flames, once, twice, three
times—a total of six high-explosive shells. Stone kept them moving ahead at about twenty miles per hour while he sighted up
to observe the damage. They had not only taken out the offending vegetation but had gouged out a swimming pool-size hole where
the vanished cactus had just stood.
They were doing a hell of a lot better than he had expected. And they were competing with each other—each tank’s crew striving
to do better than the other. Still, they’d have to do a lot better than that. He had no illusions about the enemy they were
facing, three Bradleys against perhaps fifty, against a heavily armored fortress—this time on the alert. It was insane, it
was impossible. Stone knew the odds against him were something no betting man would take. But if he had worried about the
odds, Stone would have just laid in a comer and gone to sleep.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
N IGHT FELL suddenly like a veil dropping over the earth. In the twilight even Stone found it difficult going. As the stars
started snapping on across the skies, Stone pulled his troops to a stop just as they approached more foothills. They had been
getting all the breaks so far, and Stone didn’t want to push it. He bivouacked them into a half-circle with their backs to
a sheer rock wall and set a guard. Then the men cooked, and after dinner a crate of hidden beer was pulled out. They looked
at Stone, wondering if he was going to nix the after-dinner imbibing. But he spat and looked away. Like he had told them he
wasn’t “that kind” of officer. He had seen enough rules-and-regulation asshole brass in his life to turn him into an anarchist
forever.
A bottle was thrown across to him, and Stone grabbed it from the air. He opened it with the hilt of his long, custom bowie,
having found the exact spot that created identical torques and angles to a can opener, and took a deep swig. He turned his
head and spat it out, but surreptitiously, so the other men didn’t see him and feel hurt by his rejection of their homemade
brew. Excaliber, who had been lying with his head on his paws, sniffed the air, and his eyes grew alert. He rose up, stretching
his back into a sudden hump and then back down again, and then moseyed the few feet over to Stone, who let the bottle dangle
at his side.
“Want some dog?” Stone asked, holding the amber bottle up to the pitbull’s mouth. The fighting dog had enjoyed Dr. Kennedy’s
brew—maybe he’d like this. The huge sandpaper-like tongue darted out like a snake’s as Stone poured a little of the foaming
liquid onto it. Excaliber slurped it back in, paused a second while the taste buds and like-dislike judgment centers of his
brain argued things out for a moment. The “like” clearly won as the dog shot back to the bottle and his tongue lapped in and
out quickly over and
shot was often the last.
“All right, you’re not too bad with stationary targets,” Stone said after they’d blasted various structures into nonexistence.
“Unfortunately none of the bastards we’re going to be fighting will be stationary. So now we’ll try some mobile firing. Drivers,
in combat situations the gunner takes command. You listen to him.” They started forward, Stone in the lead, going through
desolate flatlands with the fields of cacti and anthills off to their left. “Black cactus with three arms at a half mile,”
Stone yelled into the mouthpiece. Within seconds both gunners had found the target, and their cannons erupted almost simultaneously.
One of the shells crashed down about ten yards past, the second just a yard or so in front.
“Again,” Stone screamed. “You missed—that’s a tank—he’s going to blow your ass up. Take that motherfucker out. Fire, and don’t
stop until—” But he hadn’t even finished his harangue when both barrels screamed out tongues of flames, once, twice, three
times—a total of six high-explosive shells. Stone kept them moving ahead at about twenty miles per hour while he sighted up
to observe the damage. They had not only taken out the offending vegetation but had gouged out a swimming pool-size hole where
the vanished cactus had just stood.
They were doing a hell of a lot better than he had expected. And they were competing with each other—each tank’s crew striving
to do better than the other. Still, they’d have to do a lot better than that. He had no illusions about the enemy they were
facing, three Bradleys against perhaps fifty, against a heavily armored fortress—this time on the alert. It was insane, it
was impossible. Stone knew the odds against him were something no betting man would take. But if he had worried about the
odds, Stone would have just laid in a comer and gone to sleep.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
N IGHT FELL suddenly like a veil dropping over the earth. In the twilight even Stone found it difficult going. As the stars
started snapping on across the skies, Stone pulled his troops to a stop just as they approached more foothills. They had been
getting all the breaks so far, and Stone didn’t want to push it. He bivouacked them into a half-circle with their backs to
a sheer rock wall and set a guard. Then the men cooked, and after dinner a crate of hidden beer was pulled out. They looked
at Stone, wondering if he was going to nix the after-dinner imbibing. But he spat and looked away. Like he had told them he
wasn’t “that kind” of officer. He had seen enough rules-and-regulation asshole brass in his life to turn him into an anarchist
forever.
A bottle was thrown across to him, and Stone grabbed it from the air. He opened it with the hilt of his long, custom bowie,
having found the exact spot that created identical torques and angles to a can opener, and took a deep swig. He turned his
head and spat it out, but surreptitiously, so the other men didn’t see him and feel hurt by his rejection of their homemade
brew. Excaliber, who had been lying with his head on his paws, sniffed the air, and his eyes grew alert. He rose up, stretching
his back into a sudden hump and then back down again, and then moseyed the few feet over to Stone, who let the bottle dangle
at his side.
“Want some dog?” Stone asked, holding the amber bottle up to the pitbull’s mouth. The fighting dog had enjoyed Dr. Kennedy’s
brew—maybe he’d like this. The huge sandpaper-like tongue darted out like a snake’s as Stone poured a little of the foaming
liquid onto it. Excaliber slurped it back in, paused a second while the taste buds and like-dislike judgment centers of his
brain argued things out for a moment. The “like” clearly won as the dog shot back to the bottle and his tongue lapped in and
out quickly over and
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