The remaining southeast flakwagon had busied itself with Castro's Platoon. "Hawkins up and at 'em!" Esau called, and the survivors were on their feet again, charging the south-edge APCs. A turret slammer didn't put out nearly the volume of fire a flakwagon did, but at least some had located their targets and were firing aimed bursts. Rockets impacted APCs, even as more APCs got their guns into action. And now the platoon was receiving blaster fire, as Wyzhnyny emptied from troop compartments.
The surviving APCs were pulling out of line to evade trooper attacks, and to disperse themselves as targets. One came almost toward Esau, its turret slammer riveting the darkness with bright pulses, and he punched a rocket into its front armor panel, unsure if it could penetrate there. The vehicle swerved, careened, then lost its AG cushion and stopped, plowing a short broad furrow in the ground. Wyzhnyny emerged from the rear, and firing, began to back toward the base's perimeter.
Esau sprinted to take cover against the front of the derelict APC, his partner staying behind, delivering covering fire. In the shelter of the APC, Esau paused for a second, receiving Zenawi's radio traffic along with his own platoon's. There was more of Zenawi's; Hawkins' Platoon was busy at a different level, fighting. The battle had become a melee.
The APC didn't have rungs to the top, like the human version did. He climbed to the roof via a front cowling and the top of the driver's compartment, then lay there. Saw an APC pass, separating itself from the chaos, fired his last rocket and saw it hit the troop compartment. The vehicle continued. He threw away his now useless launcher, and with blaster in hand, scanned for opportunities. He was some thirty yards outside the original row of APCs, now marked by wreckage. There was shooting everywhere. Soldiers were running around on two feet and four. "Hawkins' Platoon," he said, "when you unlimber your blasters, fix your bayonets!"
He fixed his own by feel, his eyes busy elsewhere. A flakwagon appeared around the southeast corner, a little distance outside the square, its multiple barrels hammering bursts of trasher fire in the direction of anything it saw on two legs. It would pass within ten feet. He rolled onto his side, his right hand freeing a fragmentation grenade from his harness, setting it to "impact" by feel, tossed it as the wagon passed, then jumped. The grenade roared and Esau sprinted, gripped the rim of the armored side with one hand and tossed his blaster over, running hard. He lost stride, and almost his hold, then pulled himself up and over, coming down on a Wyzhnyny body. Another Wyzhnyny hung slack in the gunner's harness, bleeding, eyes wide, jaws gaping as if for breath. Esau recovered his blaster and put him to rest.
In the cab, they'd felt and heard the explosion, suspected what had happened, and querying the gun crew, got no answer. The vehicle stopped, a door opened, and a Wyzhnyny head peered over the side. Esau shot it, then vaulted out, losing his feet as he landed, recovered quickly and fired through the open door.
"4th Squad! 4th Squad! This is Esau! I've captured a flakwagon! About… thirty yards west of the west caisson. I need a driver or two, and a gunner! Respond!" As he said it, it occurred to him he didn't know whether anyone in 4th Squad was alive. "This is Tyler, on my way!" "This is Hoke. I'm a-coming." "This is Felspar, on my way!" The answers came almost simultaneously. Esau waited tensely.
Hoke was the first to arrive. He and Esau shifted the Wyzhnyny body to serve as a driver's seat for Tyler. Tyler sat on it, and Esau climbed in back. Felspar had freed the Wyzhnyny gunner from his gun harness, and with a little ingenuity had adjusted it for himself.
For a moment Esau hesitated. "Felspar, do you need me?" he asked.
"Be good to have someone to set a new power drum when I need it."
"Okay. I'm your man. Airborne A, Hawkins' Platoon now owns a flakwagon on the south side. For God's sake don't hole us. If anyone knows of a live Wyzhnyny flakwagon, let us know. We'll see about taking it out."
He stepped onto the gunner's platform to see better.
"Wesley," Zenawi called, "there's one on the west side about a hundred yards out, stalled; I think her driver's hit. But the gunner's raising hell with Dreiser's Platoon, and it's got a couple of blastermen in back."
"I copy, Captain. We're on our way. Tyler, let's go. Felspar, don't fire at APCs now. I don't want to get tied up with fighting till we take out that other flakwagon."
"Wesley-" It was Zenawi. "That other flakwagon has a driver again. It's moving erratically toward the southwest corner, firing heavily."
"Copy, sir."
The reported flakwagon rounded the southwest corner and came toward them. "I see it, Esau!" Tyler shouted. Felspar said nothing. He swung his gun on target and at once fired a long burst. Like the APC, the Wyzhnyny-manned flakwagon swerved and stopped, but it still directed its fire elsewhere. Apparently its gunner didn't know they'd been hit by one of their own.
"Pull past it, Tyler. Felspar, wait till you've got a clear shot at the rear end, then pump her again."
Felspar liked this machine. It was a heavy flakwagon, like the one they'd trained on. They passed the other on the outside, at ten yards, and he fired a long burst into the rear. There was a surprisingly powerful explosion. A trasher bolt must have hit the enemy's power drum.
"Tyler," Esau said, "stop a minute. I want to make sure the sonofabitch is totally out of action." Then he slung his blaster on a thick shoulder and turned his back on the gunner. "Get me a P grenade out of my pack," he said. Leaning, Felspar got it for him. Esau hooked it on his harness, vaulted over the side, ran the twenty yards back to the other vehicle, tossed a frag grenade into the rear for insurance, heard it roar, and peered over the side. It looked like a slaughterhouse. The power drum that had blown had already been seated, and had torn the trasher's firing mechanism apart.
Esau opened the cab door then. Inside were two Wyzhnyny almost certainly dead. He tossed in the phosphorus grenade anyway, and slammed the door. He never heard the P grenade pop. Felspar, watching from the back of the captured flakwagon, saw Esau fall, and called Tyler, who called for a medic while Hoke jumped from the cab and ran to Esau.
"Steve," Hoke called, "he's breathing, but there's lots of blood running from under his helmet."
"A medic's on his way," Tyler answered. "Now get your butt back here! In back, to help Felspar. The captain wants us to knock out APCs before the floaters get here."
"Right. I'm a-coming."
Hoke wouldn't have believed the fighting was less than ten minutes old.
Throughout it all, the howitzers continued to thunder. General Pak could hardly have been more pleased, despite the explosives raining down on his base, because it meant the howitzers were not pulling out. And he very much wanted them to be there when the demolitions company arrived.
They no longer fired in synch; it was as if the chaos around their borders had spread inward. But the volume of shells they threw across the miles remained as great.
Airborne A temp had done their job despite the fight's premature beginning. When the demolitions platoons with their petards and heavy rockets disembarked from the APFs, the fire they faced was light. Briefly they lay low, while Hussain's Platoon moved in ahead of them to help finish off the Wyzhnyny infantry. The other three jumper platoons had been seriously reduced.