He was reading off the data cascading in jerks down the left edge of his screen like the speeded-up image of a crystal growing.The pipper remained in the center of the holofield, but the background displayed on the screen jumped madly. The tracking system was trying to find gaps that would permit it to shoot through the dense vegetation.
"AAD has a lock but not a window." Sparrow paused then pursed his lips. "Signature is consistent with a friendly recce drone. We expectin' help? Over."
The bone-deep hum of
"Blue One," Captain Ranson's voice said at last, "it may be friendly—but let your AAD make the choice. I'd rather shoot down a friendly drone with a bad identification transponder than learn the Terrans were giving some smart-help to their Consie buddies. Out."
The pipper jumped and quivered among the tree images, like an attack dog straining on its leash.
"No, sweat, snake," whispered DJ Bell. "It's all copacetic. This time . . . ."
"Blue Two lock,"said Ranson's headset as the B2 designator glowed air-defense yellow in her multi-function display.
The three mercenaries in the fighting compartment braced for it, splay-legged and on their toes. Shock gouged the edge of Ranson's breastplate into the top of her thighs.
"Blue Three, ah, locked," said Sergeant Wager, but the designator
Wager, the recent transfer from combat cars, was having problems with his hardware. Understandable but a piss-poor time for it. His driver, that was Holman, she wasn't any better. The nameless Blue Three kept losing station, falling behind or speeding up to the point the tank threatened to overrun the car directly ahead of it.
"Janacek!" Ranson snapped. "Don't point your gun! Now! Lower it!"
"Via, Cap'n—" the wing gunner said fiercely.Histribarrel slanted upward at a 30° angle on the rough southwest vector he'd gleaned from seeing
"
