The Complete Hammer's Slammers: Volume 3 Read Free

defenses. The clerk responsible for the communications bay watched Coke in concern from across the room, but she didn’t attempt to interfere.
    Marquis Bradkopf began hectoring a subordinate outside the door of the TOC. Drink and anger slurred his words so that Coke couldn’t make them out. A woman’s voice wove a descant around Bradkopf’s.
    “Battery Seven,” a man said. “Yeah?”
    “This is Fortress Command,” Coke said crisply. “I have an immediate fire mission for you.” As he spoke, his left hand addressed a target information packet on the Frisian console. “This will require seeker shells, so I’m authorizing you to release them from locked storage.”
    “What!” said the soldier on the other end of the line. “What? Look, I’ll get Chief Edson.”
    Theoretically, the Frisians were in advisory capacity without direct control of National Army forces. As with other large organizations, somebody who was willing to claim authority was more than likely to be granted it.
    The mortar fired again, lofting a second flare into the night sky. There was static on the land line, masking a half-audible conversation at the battery end.
    National Army heavy equipment was generally of off-planet manufacture, ranging from good to very good in design. The local personnel were of low quality, however, and virtually untrained. Coke didn’t dare call an ordinary fire mission to support units within half a klick of the intended impact area. Battery 7’s 200-mm guns were capable of nail-driving accuracy at thirty kilometers, but the crews were as apt as not to drop their heavy shells directly on The Facts of Life.
    Technology could eliminate the problem. The battery was issued four Frisian-manufactured seeker rounds, one per tube. These self-steering warheads were designed for use against ill-defined or moving targets, and combined with satellite photos of Parcotch Hamlet 2 they would obviate the friendly-fire risk.
    “Chief Edson,” a businesslike voice said. “Who is this?”
    “Major Matthew Coke,” Coke said, “acting Fortress Command. Where’s your battery commander?”
    “Who the fuck knows?” said the chief, the battery’s ranking enlisted man. “Look, Major, I don’t care about your authorization— I flat don’t have the codes to open the special locker. Maybe Captain Wilcken does, maybe the Marquis does—maybe nobody. Forget the seeker warheads, they’re just for show.”
    “Prepare the battery,” Coke snapped. “I’m on my way.”
    He dropped the handset onto its cradle and rose. More figures drifted through the shadows of the split screen. Lennox and Dubose held their silence, as Coke had directed them at last transmission.
    Coke settled his commo helmet, slung the sub-machine gun over his shoulder, and started for the door. General Bradkopf and his entourage burst through from outside.
    “Coke!” the Marquis roared. “Where’s—there you are!” He pointed an index finger at Coke’s face. “What’s happened to my tanks?”
    Bradkopf was in his mid-fifties. His body was fleshy but powerful, since swimming and exercise machines controlled the grosser results of the dissipation nonetheless evident on his face.
    “Sir, you and I discussed using the combat cars for an ambush patrol,” Coke half-lied. His mouth was dry, and his palm was sweating on the grip of his sub-machine gun.
    This could get him reprimanded. If Bradkopf was angry enough, he could even have Coke recalled to Friesland.
    The group oozing into the TOC behind the Marquis included most of the higher male officers of Fortress Auerstadt’s complement. Among them was Captain Wilcken, a twenty-year-old of excellent family and the titular commander of Battery 7.
    Each of the men had a woman in train. The redhead on the Marquis’ arm was approximately a third of his age.
    “You said you wanted to send out one of the tanks with a patrol,” Bradkopf said, his memory unfortunately quite accurate. “For