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couldn't place it, but when he realized what it was he laughed, and turned to find that Sergeant Major Como had materialized at his side. “Sorry about the vehicles, sir, but as you know, the bastards wouldn't let us bring any of our own stuff down.”
    Stell knew Como was referring to the Elders’ refusal to allow them any armor. While they rode around in whatever they could dredge up, there were a couple of hundred perfectly good vehicles aboard the brigade's three transports, presently in orbit around Arno. If the thought of mercenaries made the Elders nervous, the thought of mercenaries riding around in tanks probably drove them crazy.
    “But I see you found a way around that,” Stell said, indicating the rounded shape in the back of the limo.
    Como's face registered elaborate innocence. “You mean trooper Smith, sir? I agree he's tough, but certainly no match for armor.”
    Nodding in mock agreement, Stell said, “Now that I look again I see you're absolutely right, Sergeant Major. That is trooper Smith. Ugly bastard I must say. By the way, Sergeant Major, my compliments on our transportation,” Stell said, eyeing the aging vehicles that made up the convoy. “I see that in addition to your other accomplishments you're able to raise the dead.”
    The joke got the predictable laugh from those near enough to hear it. Stell knew it would make the rounds of the barracks later, making him seem less remote and more human to the troops. As he climbed into the truck he felt guilty about how easily he could manipulate them. But leadership hadn't come as naturally to him as it did to some. Bull Strom had been a good example. He had that mysterious ability that allows some to walk into a room full of perfect strangers and effortlessly make each into a friend and admirer. Lacking that kind of charisma, Stell developed a more calculated style of leadership which, though quite effective, seemed somehow artificial and therefore less genuine.
    Stell chinned his radio switch on. “Where's Major Malik?” he asked, looking around for his XO.
    Fifty feet away, in his own vehicle, Como shrugged his shoulders. “He told Sergeant Wilkens he was planning a surprise inspection of the perimeter, sir.”
    Stell was annoyed that Malik hadn't seen fit to show up for final orders, but the surprise inspection was a good idea. It would keep the greenies on their toes. As the convoy jerked into motion, Stell's eyes began a systematic search of their surroundings. He was looking for the little things, clues which had often made the difference between life and death: the hint of motion in an upstairs window, the glint of reflected light off a weapon, the stalled vehicle that shouldn't be there. But finding nothing, he turned his attention to the convoy. The natural tendency to bunch up could be suicidal. A tightly grouped convoy could be destroyed with a single shoulder-launched missile, or a well-placed bomb. But the vehicles stayed well separated under Como's watchful eye.
    Cautiously, the convoy wound its way through darkening streets, twisting and turning like some nocturnal snake gradually moving further away from the safety of its lair. And, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Stell felt a prickling in his scalp and knew they were not alone. The wash of their headlights was quickly lost in the darkness that had descended around them. People weren't seen, only sensed, as their dark, uncertain forms scurried to avoid the light and were tracked out of sight by infrared scanners.
    Stell shivered in his armor, doing his best to ignore the ancient instincts pumping adrenaline through his system, urging him to run, to hide from the unknown things that stalked the night. Then darkness turned to day, as powerful flares went off. The intense light drove the filters in Stell's visor to the edge of burnout. Swearing, he switched to infrared just in time to see the attackers come swarming up out of the sewers like maggots fleeing a disturbed corpse.