In that fraction of a second, the Arat Kur vehicle had closed to fifty-eight meters.
The antivehicle weapon—an extended rocket-assisted projectile, or “stick RAP”—exited the launch tube with a dull thump: the launching charge. A split second later, only five meters out of the barrel, that small clearing stage tumbled away and the rocket motor kicked on.
51 meters to the rushing enemy craft.
The RAP streaked at the disk, which must have had an automatic detection and evasion system; it angled sharply to the right—
48 meters to the enemy craft.
As the missile swerved in pursuit and closed to ten meters range, the base of the nosecone flared, sent a small HEAP round forward with an extra two-gee burst of speed.
45 meters—
The HEAP pre-munition impacted; the detonation sent a jet of molten metal into the armor protecting the disk’s machinery.
44.2 meters—
The main rocket’s IR followup seeker head rode the bright, thermal plume into the scorched and severely weakened armor—
43 meters.
The head of the main body detonated upon impact, ejecting another molten HEAP jet. The armor buckled.
43.95 meters.
Pushed by the still-accelerating motor, the depleted uranium penetrator rod spiked into the armor, ripping through as though it were paper, sucking the slower, roiling molten metal in behind it.
The disk tumbled once and disintegrated with a roar that spawned two others, each punctuated by a bright white flash: secondary explosions from destroyed munitions.
Opal smiled—and went down sideways as someone punched her in the ribs.
She tried to rise, couldn’t, discovered that her vision was hazy. Then the world came back into focus, and a local was screaming something at his followers; a surrounding thicket of AK-47 muzzles lowered quickly. She raised up on one elbow, found breathing difficult. She looked down: her body armor had a new, shiny crater just about level with her left floating rib. Score one for friendly fire.
“Well, that was a pretty boneheaded set of moves.”
She looked up at the source of the tactical critique, saw a short—quite short, really—man in his thirties walking toward her in black and brown camos. He looked at her—or rather, her rank—more closely. “I mean that in the best possible way, Major.”
She looked at him closely as well. The voice was familiar, and behind that camo face paint, unless she was very much mistaken—
He had obviously recognized her, too. “Hey,” he said, “didn’t I rescue you from assassins by snatching you off a rooftop in Alexandria this March? You and Caine Riordan?” His grin seemed about as wide as he was tall.
“Yes, and hey, yourself,” Opal answered. “Glad to see you made it off that roof. But you’re a long way from Alexandria.”
“I could say the same about you, ma’am. And, although a SEAL wouldn’t normally be in your chain of command, allow me to ask you: orders?”
“Yeah. Help me up, damnit. Jeez, I didn’t remember you being so short.”
“And I didn’t remember you being so cute, ma’am.”
A pint-sized SEAL chief flirting with an Army major who was probably born before his own mother? She looked at him sideways. So what is it with SEALs and me? Or—although it was less personally flattering—what was it with SEALs? Extra doses of testosterone in their chow? Nah, they miss a lot of meals, so they might not get enough of it. So it had to be in the beer. Yep, that would be the primary, and surest, delivery vector. But however amusing the banter, she had to put a stop to it. “I think you’ve been in-country too long… Sergeant.”
“Probably so, ma’am, but you’ll forgive me for saying that camos suit you a lot better than a bloody hospital gown.”
Have to agree with him there—and with the topic having shifted to clothing, she noted that although the insurgents were not in uniforms, there were telltale signs that not all of them were simply irate civilians. In particular, the three persons who had been on the slope with the SEAL were all wearing military boots, had lighter complexions and shorter hair, and were all roughly the same age.
She turned back to the sergeant. “Don’t continue patronizing me with this ‘orders, ma’am?’ crap until you’ve briefed me on this unit. And it is a unit. No, don’t give me the big innocent eyes. You’ve got some regulars mixed in here.”
The sergeant nodded. “Three from the People’s Republic—they’re tunnel rats. Like me.”
“Tunnel rats? Oh, wait—” Opal smiled. “Case IfUC1.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve heard of this operation by name. Back in Washington, just before heading here.” Thanks for the info, Downing. “But back then I didn’t know what it referred to. I didn’t get the joke.”
“‘IfUC1?’ That’s a joke?”
“Sure. You know what they say about rats: ‘If you see one—’”
“—There are a hundred more.” Little Guy shouldered his weapon, looked at his watch. “Well, that’s us, sure enough. A few less of us, after today. But a lot fewer of them. Thanks, in part, to you. But honestly, Major, about that charge of yours. Don’t you think that was a little too ‘gung ho’ for a commanding officer?”
Opal studied him carefully. Little Guy’s bloodless, offhanded remark about the casualties and his flippant criticism of her belied the steady gaze with which he watched his casualties—six dead Indonesians—being carried past. He looked at each face as if he were trying to memorize, or commune with, it.
She reached out and took his shoulder. “Let’s get something straight, Sergeant. I know your kind. You’ve got a mean-ass-mutha exterior concealing a mother-hen interior. And you manage to wind officers around your little finger, that way. And I thank you for your concern and your foolish flattery. But that’s the last time I want to hear your opinion on my tactical choices. Get used to high-initiative operations, ’cause that’s the kind of CO I am.”
Little Guy was still trying. “As you wish, ma’am, but you’ll meet your maker pretty quick that way.”
“My maker’s scared to meet me, and the other guy won’t have me.” Her glance bounced from her flechette-mangled helmet, to the hole in her pants leg, and ended on the crater in her armor. “As you will witness.”
Little Guy finally smiled again. “Okay, then. Glad to have you on board. Major.”
“Smile when you say that, Stretch. Now let’s unass this place. It’s going to look a lot messier in about five minutes.”
He checked his watch. “Three minutes, Major. The opposition is pretty fast on the reply.”
Following the lead of the Kopassus commando, they started heading directly over the slope that the disk had been coming down. “How do you get around?”
“What do you think? Tunnels.”
“Watch that tone, Little Guy. Besides, who builds tunnels in Indonesia? From what I remember, trying to dig tunnels here is about as promising as trying to grow roses on the Moon.”
Little Guy nodded. “Yeah, but they had to build these tunnels to protect the fiber optics with which they were planning to rewire the whole country. Or so I’m told. Pretty big conduits for cables, though. Almost a meter wide, and because the system was never finished, they’re not on regional survey maps.”
“So the Arat Kur don’t know about these tunnels? Them?”
Little Guy shrugged. “Seems not. But then again, why should they?”