Staying within sight of each other, the two Russian war machines stalked slowly north through the woods — accompanied by the loud, crackling sound of snapping branches and trampled brush as they bulled their way through places where tangles of interlaced trees, stunted saplings, vines, creepers, and bushes formed an otherwise impenetrable barrier. They stayed off the occasional, meandering horse and cattle trails they crossed. If the Americans did have prepared defenses on this ranch, those narrow paths would be deathtraps. Despite the noise they were making, Zelin figured it was safer to stay deep in cover rather than give any defenders lurking up ahead a chance to use high-caliber, long-range weapons against them. In this thick forest, any encounters would take place at almost point-blank range, where their KVMs’ agility, armor, and speed should prove decisive.
Brad McLanahan swallowed hard, feeling a painful lump in his throat. That huge blast off to the west could mean only one thing: Macomber’s CID had blown itself up. There was no way to tell whether the colonel had been able to get out of his machine and into good cover before it detonated. So all he could do was hope and pray that Whack’s name wasn’t going to end up on his list of dead friends and comrades, a list that was already far too long. His eyes stung. Impatiently, he shook his head to clear them, but his CID’s neural interface material around his head was too tight. Screw it. If he lived through this fight, there’d be time enough to mourn later.
Just now that looked like a mighty big “if.”
At least the pair of Russian war robots Macomber had tangled with weren’t transmitting anymore. It was likely they were both wrecked, too… or at least so seriously damaged that they no longer posed a real threat. Which left four of the powerful enemy machines prowling out there in the darkness. And that meant he and Nadia still faced odds of two-to-one against them.
A map section on Brad’s tactical display turned red. Signal intercepts plus audio sensors indicate two hostiles advancing in this sector, his computer reported. Exact range indeterminate, but certainly less than six hundred meters.
He frowned. Those Russian pilots were coming right at him through the thickest parts of the stands of scraggly, second-growth timber that covered this narrow valley from rim to rim. It was obvious that they were staying well away from any clearings and trails. Probable engagement range? he queried the computer.
Less than one hundred meters, it replied.
“Great.” He sighed. Their rail guns were the one weapons advantage they had over the Russians. Unfortunately, being forced to fight in the middle of a woodland robbed him of that advantage. Firing through those scrub oaks and cedars wasn’t the problem. At Mach 5, a rail-gun projectile could punch a hole in the tallest redwood and keep on going. No, what sucked was the fact that he wouldn’t be able to get a lock on those enemy machines until they were practically right on top of him. Powering up the rail gun would give his position away, but he should still be able to get the first shot off… which meant he could nail one Russian robot for sure. And then its companion would undoubtedly kill him, before his rail gun could cycle for a second shot.
Falling back to engage in more open ground wasn’t an option either. The only open country behind him would give those Russians clear fields of fire at Governor Farrell’s ranch house.
Ditch the “woe is poor, little me” crap, Brad, he told himself sternly. This was one of those “best-laid plans” deals, where everything went to hell, despite your best efforts. So he was going to have to fight and win right here, in the middle of these woods — or die trying. And since he’d really rather not get killed, he’d better come up with some better options… and fast.
Enemy advance continuing, the CID’s computer reminded him. Range to hostiles firming up based on additional audio and signals data. Now four hundred meters, plus or minus one hundred meters.
The area highlighted on Brad’s display shrank, reflecting this new assessment. But he still didn’t have enough information to engage at a decent range. Even now, his computer’s best estimate of the enemy location only put the two oncoming Russian war machines somewhere inside a moving box two hundred meters wide and three hundred meters deep. Firing blind with his rail gun and trusting to sheer luck to score a hit would be stupid. Nor could he effectively sweep a zone that large with his 25mm autocannon. The odds against destroying or disabling both enemy robots before he ran out of ammunition — or, more likely, they returned fire and blew the crap out of him — were astronomical.
Suddenly he remembered one of Whack’s favorite battlefield maxims: When in doubt, smoke them out. He grinned tightly. He had area-effect weapons. It was time to use them… even if only to rattle those Russian pilots a little and maybe throw them off their own game plan. Load thermobaric grenades, he instructed his computer.
Quickly, Brad selected a series of desired impact points on his tactical display. The “ready” icon flashed. He stood up, unlimbered his grenade launcher, and aimed the weapon downrange, following the cues shown by the CID’s computer as it calculated a precise trajectory automatically adjusted for wind velocity and temperature.
He squeezed the trigger. The launcher coughed quietly. He absorbed the minor amount of recoil, swung toward the next aiming cue, and fired again. And then a third time.
Time to go, Brad thought. His first grenade would impact in about three seconds. And when it did, all hell was going to break loose. For once, that phrase would be almost literally true. He started moving to his right, striding through the woods at an easy pace to keep his camouflage systems effective and to stay as quiet as possible.
Through the tree canopy, the sky to the south lit up with a bright orange flash. The sound reached him a second later.
WHUMMP.
“What the devil!” Major Viktor Zelin snarled, caught off guard by the powerful explosion a hundred meters behind him. The blast wave tore past, ripping leaves off trees and sending them swirling into the air. Heat swept across his KVM’s armor. He crouched lower, reacting instinctively.
A second explosion shredded the darkness, this time even closer and off to the right. His night-vision sensors stepped down the flash so that it didn’t blind him. His machine rocked, hit by another shock wave. The temperature readings outside his cockpit spiked upward again. Burning debris rained down across the nearby woods.
WHUMMP.
A third blast slashed at the forest a couple of hundred meters to his left — sending another ball of fire boiling into the sky. “We’re being mortared!” Novikov yelled.
Negative. Weapons are 40mm thermobaric grenades, Zelin’s KVM countered. A threat icon appeared on his map, highlighting a clearing about 350 meters ahead of them. Sound analysis indicates this area as probable firing point. He grimaced. The Americans must have a bunker or trench complex out there, camouflaged against satellite detection.