"What?" Buccari gasped aloud. "What happened?" she shouted. Et Silmarn stirred. Buccari signed frantically, trying to find out what had happened to the Marines. The cliff dweller recoiled at her hysteria, his sign language confused.
"Take it easy on the little guy," MacArthur said.
Buccari whirled at the sound of his voice. She turned to see all six Marines hiking over the tree-lined ridge, carrying strange weapons and two large breathing-unit tanks. Et Silmarn was immediately on his hinds, his sleep-swollen eyes wide and unblinking, fixated on the metal tanks full of precious fuel. His death would come more slowly.
"Are—is everyone all right?" Buccari asked. Shannon lagged far behind, and Chastain was helping Gordon.
"Sarge hurt his back, and Gordon got burned pretty good on one shoulder," MacArthur reported. His voice was energetic, but he was clearly exhausted. "We iced two bugs, and it only cost us eight rounds. That's a good ratio."
"And we got these bazookas and eighty rounds in trade," Petit shouted. "Helluva deal!"
"Shoot!" O'Toole joined in. "We've taken out almost half of them in one day. This is going to be a piece of cake. A friggin' piece of cake!"
Tonto whistled sharply. He hopped across the campsite and climbed the low rise overlooking the valley. They heard a noise, a sickeningly familiar rumble. The rumble turned into raging thunder, dragging their gazes high into the dark blue skies. Two brilliant white-hot sparks fell from above, growing ever larger and emitting ever louder and more violent noises. The arc-light flames appeared to descend directly upon their heads, but as the infernos neared the surface of the planet, gradually slowing their descent, it became obvious the two newly arrived landers were settling on the lakeshore, within kilometers of the first two. The awestruck onlookers covered their ears and watched as more trees exploded into flames and shock-induced ripples fanned across the distant waters of the valley lake.
The corrosive sounds of the lander retros died suddenly, and the anguished refugees removed hands from ears as if they were one being. The silence was deafening. Oily black smoke poured upwards from the expanded ring of destruction and was lifted and rapidly dispersed by a steady breeze from the northwest. Pebbles and small rocks, shaken loose from their precarious resting places, tumbled from the mountain behind them.
"A frigging piece of cake," O'Toole moaned.
"Hell! They got reinforcements!" Petit cried.
"What're we going to do?" Gordon whined, holding his shoulder. The surface of his leather poncho was blackened and shot with ragged holes. He was lucky to be alive.
MacArthur turned abruptly. "So what? So frigging what? What's a few more? There'll never be enough of them," He swept his arm across the verdant valley. "This is only one small valley. We'll hide. We'll fight! We'll use bows and arrows! Spears!" He looked at Buccari, his pewter-gray eyes shining like headlights from deep within a drawn, soot-blackened face.
Buccari looked back at the determined Marine, and her own spirits surged. "Mac's right," she said. "And don't forget—the fleet's up there. If nothing else, these clowns will draw attention our way. I'm counting on getting rescued, but if we can't be rescued, then by God, we'll fight!"
"Lieutenant," Shannon said quietly, as he limped from the group, his back contorted. "I'm with you all the way, but if you don't mind, I'm going to lay this old body down. I recommend everyone rest up as much as possible, 'cause we'll be needing it."
Chapter 42
Conflict
Runacres, in full battle armor, scanned a simulation of the fleet defenses, gaming his alternatives. He glanced at the main situation plot as the last corvette to reach station glided into position. A signal illuminated on his panel.
"Yes, group leader?" Runacres responded, clearing his screen.
"Screen commander reports all corvettes on station, Admiral," the corvette commander announced. "Countermeasures plan Beta Two implemented. Enemy engagements imminent."
"Very well," Runacres said stonily, cinching his harness. "All units cleared to fire, Franklin."
"Aye, Admiral. Weapons free," Wells replied. The operations officer punched an interlock release and warning lights flashed.
"All 'vettes report maximum readiness," the group leader said. "No exceptions."
"Very well," Runacres snapped, switching circuits to screen tactical. Transmission density was high, but radio discipline was sound; terse position and target commands flashed from ship to ship. Runacres watched and listened with grim pride as the disposition of picket units changed dynamically, flowing subtly to counteract the movement of the approaching foe.