Craige and Komar,transit drivers who hadn't been promoted to line units after a couple years service each, seemed to have finished their task. Six assembled rounds waited on the hog's loading tray.
Between each 200mm shell (color-coded as to type) and its olive-drab base charge was a white-painted booster. The booster contained beryllium-based fuel to give the round range sufficient to hit positions around la Reole.
Lavel checked each fastener while the two drivers waited uneasily.
"Allright,"he said atlast,grudging them credit for the task he could no longer perform. "All right. They should be coming with the next load now."
He climbed the three steps into the gun compartment carefully. The enclosure smelled of oil and propellant residues. It smelled like home.
Lavel powered up, listening critically to the sound of each motor and relay as it came live. The bank of idiot lights above the targeting console had a streak of red and amber with a green expanse: the traversing mechanism failed regularly when the turret was rotated over fifteen degrees to either side.
Thank the Lord for that problem. Without it, the howitzer wouldn't 've been here in Camp Progress when it was needed.
Needed by Task Force Ranson. Needed by Chief Lavel.
He sat in the gun captain's chair, then twisted to look over his shoulder. "Are you clear?" he shouted to his helpers. "Keep clear!"
For choice, Lavel would have stuck his head out the door of the gun compartment to make sure Craige and Komar didn't have their hands on the heavy shells. That would mean picking up his crutch and levering himself from the chair again . . . .
Level touched the execute button to start the loading sequence.
The howitzer had arrived at Camp Progress with most of a basic load of ammunition still stowed in its hull. For serious use, the hog would have been fed from one or more ammunition haulers, connected to the loading ramp by conveyor belts.
No problem. The nineteen rounds available would be enough for
Seventeen rounds. Two of the shells couldn't be used for this purpose. But seventeen was plenty.
The howitzer began to swallow its meal of ammunition, clanking and wobbling on its suspension. Warrant Leader Ortnahme had ordered the shells off loaded and stored at a safe distance—from him—as soon as the hog arrived for maintenance. That quantity of high explosive worried most people.
Not Chief Lavel, who'd worked with it daily—until some other cannon-cocker got his range.
