第113节

m were twelve, thirteen, no ?. . fourteen Mute warriors.

Half of them carried loaded cross-bows raised against the shoulder,

ready to fire. The others had their knives out.

And 8902 Brickman, their Plainfolk brother was sitting in a Federation

Skyhawk, dressed in the camouflage fatigues worn by the hated occupants

of the iron snakes.

No good relying on the nose-mounted Vulcan. The six barrels were

buried in the dirt underneath the nose and in any case, since it fired

on a fixed line, all they would have needed to do was step out of the

way. The only gun on board, the pistol in the emergency survival kit,

was in a special outside compartment behind the cockpit on the port

side.

Nice one, Stevie. . .

While he was trying to work out an appropriate way of introducing

himself, death and deliverance dropped out of the sky. A blue 'Hawk

came round the far edge of the larch forest behind his starboard wing

and swept in at zero feet with all six barrels pumping steel. The line

of Mutes attempted to scatter, but the 'Hawk pilot had positioned

himself well, catching the line end on. All fourteen went down

spraying blood as the needlepoint rounds scythed through their

bodies.

Steve threw the cockpit cover open, and hauled himself out with

infinite care. He could no longer put any weight on his left ankle.

Terrific .... He shifted his butt onto the rim of the cockpit and

watched the Skyhawk make a climbing turn to port. Steve shuffled along

to the port side emergency panel, released the catch, and got his hands

on the survival kit. He tossed the rations and first aid packages

aside, revealing the loaded pistol in its neatly packed

shoulder-holster. Pocketing the spare magazines, he pulled out the

pistol, then limped back towards the cockpit and stood with his right

hand thrust inside, concealing the gun.

He was hoping the Skyhawk pilot might land and offer a lift on his

buddy frame. If he did, Steve planned to shoot him and move on. But

the Skyhawk did not land.

It continued to circle overhead.

Commander Bob Carroll was not in a rescuing mood today ....

Steve gazed up at the 'Hawk and tried to work out what to do. The

problem was solved by the arrival of a camouflaged SkyRider. The kind

used by AMEXICO.

Definitely not good news.

The SkyRider made a low pass over Steve's position, then climbed back

to make an approach and landing on his port side, bumping to a halt

about eighty yards away.

Beyond the effective range of his air pistol. The pilot kept the

engine running. The passenger canopy opened.

A helmeted figure in camouflage fatigues got out, came round the nose

of the SkyRider and stood watching him.

Steve tightened his grip on the hidden pistol.

A second helmeted figure came out from behind the SkyRider carrying a

rifle. He went down on one knee and took aim. The rising sun that

warmed Steve's back flared briefly off the lens of a telescopic sight

as a triple volley tore into his right shoulder, slamming him back

against the cockpit. The pistol flew out of his hand as it jerked

open, bounced off the seat and fell beyond reach.

It doesn't hurt, Brickman. Nothing hurts any more. Steve straightened

up and put his weight on his good leg as the first helmeted figure

pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster and walked towards him. As

he got closer, he raised his helmet visor.

'Hiya, John. So this is how it goes, huh?"