The Compleat Bolo (37 page)

"Tell it to open up," Frink commanded. Dub nodded and passed the order along to the Bolo; immediately the aft cargo hatch opened to reveal the capacious storage space beneath.

At Frink's urging, with Kibbe fussily directing the volunteers to the rear storage loft, a human chain formed up, and in moments the first of the bright-yellow, one-pound packages of explosive was passed along the line, and tucked away in the far corner of the Bolo's cargo bin.

As the last of the explosive was handed down to Frink, who had stationed himself inside the bin, stacking the smashite, Kibbe climbed up to peer inside cautiously before handing down a coil of waxy yellow wire, and a small black box marked detonator. mark xx.

"Got to rig it up fer remote control," he explained gratuitously to Henry, who was watching closely. "So's he can unload and back off before it goes up."

Half an hour later, while the entire population of New Orchard cheered, the battle-scarred machine once more set off across the plain toward the distant fault-line known as the Cliff. Dub stood with Henry, hoping that no one would notice the tears he felt trickling down his face.

"He'll be all right, son," Henry reassured the lad. "The route you passed on to him will take him well to the east, so that he'll come up on Big Cut directly above the enemy concentration."

"It ain't fair," Dub managed, furious at the break in his voice.

"It seems to be the only way," Henry told him. "There are lives at stake, Dub. Perhaps this will save them."

"Johnny's worth more'n the whole town," Dub came back defiantly.

"I can't dispute that," Henry said quietly. "But if all goes well, we'll save both, and soon Unit JNA will be back in his museum, once we rebuild it, with new battle honors to his credit. Believe me, this is as he wants it. Even if he should be ambushed, he'd rather go down fighting."

"He trusted me to look out for him," Dub insisted.

"There's nothing you could have done that would have pleased him more than ordering him into action," Henry said with finality. In silence, they watched the great silhouette dwindle until it was lost against the cliffs, misty with distance.

Once more I know the exultation of going on the offensive against a worthy foe. My orders, however, do not permit me to close with him, but rather to mount the heights and to blast the rock down on him. This, I compute, is indeed my final mission. I shall take care to execute it in a manner worthy of the Dinochrome Brigade.

While the wisdom of this tactical approach is clear, it is not so satisfying as would be a direct surprise attack. Once at the Rim, I am to descend the cliff-face so far as is possible, via the roadway blasted long ago for access to certain mineral deposits exposed in the rockface. I am weary after this morning's engagement, nearing the advanced depletion level, but I compute that I have enough energy in reserve to carry out my mission. Beyond that, it is not my duty to compute.

Sitting at his desk, Cy Kibbe jumped in startlement when General Henry spoke suddenly, behind him. "I declare, Henry—I mean General," Kibbe babbled. "I never knowed—never seen you come in to my office here. What can I do for you, General, sir?"

"You can tell me more about this errand you've sent Unit JNA off on. For example, how did you go about selecting the precise point at which the machine is to set the charges?"

Kibbe opened a drawer and took out a sheaf of papers from which he extracted a hand drawn map labeled
Claim District 33,
showing details of the unfinished road on the cliff face. After Henry had glanced at it, Kibbe produced glossy 8 x 10 photos showing broken rock, marked-up in red crayon.

"Got no proper printouts, sir," he explained hastily. "Jest these old pitchers and the sketchmap, made by my pa years ago. Shows the road under construction," Kibbe pointed to the top photo. "See, General, far as it goes, it's plenty wide enough for the machine."

"I don't see how it's going to turn around on that goat path," Henry commented, shuffling through the photos. "You loaded two hundred pounds of Compound L-547. That's enough to blow half the cliff off, but it has to be placed just right."

"Right, sir," Kibbe agreed eagerly. "Right at the end o' the track'll do it. I know my explosives, sir, used to be a soft-rocker myself, up till the vein played out. My daddy taught me. Lucky I had the smashite on hand; put good money into stocking it, and been holding it all these years."

"I'm sure the claim you put in to Budev will cover all that," Henry said shortly.

"Sir," Kibbe said in a more subdued tone, as he extracted another paper from the drawer. "If you'd be so kind, General, to sign this here emergency requisition form, so's to show I supplied the material needed for gubment business. . . ."

Henry looked at the document. "I suppose I can sign this," he acknowledged. "I saw the explosives loaded, looks legitimate to me." He took the stylus proffered by Kibbe and slashed an illegible signature in the space indicated.

"I understand you have an old observation station on the roof, for watching the mining work at the cliff," Henry said. "Let's go up and see how well we can monitor the Bolo's progress."

Kibbe agreed with alacrity, and led the way to the narrow stair which debouched on the tarred roof. He went across to a small hut, unlocked the door, and ushered the general into the stuffy interior crammed with old-fashioned electronic gear. He seated himself at the console and punched keys. A small screen lit up and flickered until Kibbe turned dials to steady an image of looming pinkish rock pitted with shallow cavities. "Blasted them test holes," he grunted. "Hadda abandon the work cause the formation was unstable, big mining engineer told Pa, condemned the claim—but that's just what we need, now!" Kibbe leaned back, grinning in satisfaction. "One good jolt, and the whole overburden'll come down. Now let's see can we get a line on the spodders down below the Cut." He twiddled knobs and the screen scanned down the rockface to the dry riverbed at the bottom, where the Deng had deployed their armor in battle array.

"Lordy," Kibbe whispered. "Got enough of 'em, ain't they, General sir?"

"Looks like a division, at least," Henry agreed. "They're perfectly placed for your purposes, Mr. Mayor, if nothing alerts them."

"I suppose their transports are farther north in the Cut," Henry said.

"That's right, General sir," Kibbe confirmed. "I been keeping an eye on 'em up here ever since we heard where they was at. Mighty handy, having this here spy gear." Kibbe patted the panel before him. "Pa suspicioned there was some dirty work going on at the claim, claim-jumpers and the like; spent a pretty penny shipping all this gear in and paid some experts to install it, placed the pick-up eyes all over to give him good coverage. Yessir, a pretty penny."

"I'll confirm the use of your equipment when you file your claim, Mr. Mayor," Henry said. "You'll make a nice profit on it. Provided," he added, "your plan works."

"Gotta work," Kibbe said, grinning. He adjusted the set again, and now it showed the approach to the cliff road, with the Bolo coming up fast, trailing a dustcloud that was visible now also through the lone window of the look-out shed.

The two men watched as the machine slowed, scouted the cliff-edge, then pivoted sharply, its prow dipping as it entered the man-made cut. Kibbe dollied in, and they watched the big machine move steadily down the rough-surfaced road, which was barely wide enough for passage by the Bolo.

"Close, but it's got room," Kibbe said. "Pa wasn't no dummy when he had 'em cut that trail wide enough for the heavy haulers."

"Very provident man, your father," Henry acknowledged. "I assume you'll include road-toll fees in your claim."

"Got a right to," Kibbe asserted promptly.

"Indeed you have," Henry confirmed. "I won't dispute your claim. A military man knows his rights, Mr. Mayor— but he also knows his duty."

"Sure," Kibbe said. "Well, I guess I done my duty all right, putting all my equipment and supplies at the disposal of the gubment and all—not to say nothing about the time I put in on this. I'm a busy man, General, got the store to run and the town, too, but I've taken the time off, like now, to see to it the public's needs is took care of."

"Your public spirit amazes me," Henry said in a tone which Kibbe was unable to interpret.

At that moment, the office door creaked and Kibbe turned to greet Fred Frink, who hesitated, his eyes on Henry.

"Come right on in, Freddy," Kibbe said heartily. "You're just in time. Looky here." He leaned back to afford the newcomer an unimpeded view of the screen where the Bolo had halted at a barrier of striated rock.

"End o' the road," Kibbe commented. "Perfect spot to blast that cliff right down on the durn spodders."

Frink was holding a small plastic keybox in his hand. He looked from Henry to Kibbe, a worried expression on his unshaven face.

"Go ahead, Freddy," Kibbe urged, as he snapped switches on the panel. "All set," he added. "You're on the air. Go." As he turned to catch Frink's eye, the scene on the screen exploded into a fireball shrouded in whirling dust. The great slab of rock blocking the road seemed to jump, then fissured and fell apart, separating into a multitude of ground-car-sized chunks which seemed to move languidly downward before disintegrating into a chaotic scene of falling rock and spurting dust, in which the Bolo was lost to view. As the dust thinned, settling, nothing was visible but a vast pit in the shattered rock-face, heaped rocks, and a rapidly dissipating smoke-cloud.

"We done it!" Kibbe exulted, while Frink stared at the screen, wide-eyed.

"I see now why you weren't concerned about how the unit would turn around to withdraw," Henry said in an almost lazy tone. "It's buried under, I'd estimate, a few thousand tons of pulverized limestone. Not that it matters much, considering what the explosion did to its internal circuitry. Not even a Bolo can stand up unharmed to a blast of that magnitude actually within its war-hull."

"Cain't make a omelet without you break a few aigs," Kibbe said complacently, then busied himself at the panel. Again he scanned down the cliff-face, ending this time at a panorama of smoking rubble which filled the bottom of the Cut from wall to wall. Not a Yavac was to be seen.

"Don't reckon them spodders is going no place now, General," he commented complacently. Both men turned as Freddy uttered a yelp and turned and ran from the room, yelling the glad news. In moments, a mob-roar rose from the street below.

"Don't start celebrating just yet," General Henry said quietly, his eyes on the screen. Kibbe glanced at him, swallowed the objection he had been about to utter, and followed the general's glance. On the screen, almost clear of obscuring dust, the blanket of broken rock at the bottom of the Cut could be seen to heave and bulge. Great rocks rolled aside as the iodine-colored snout of a Class One Yavac emerged; the machine's tracks gained purchase; the enemy fighting machine dozed its way out from its premature burial and maneuvered on the broken surface of the drift of rock to take up its assigned position, by which time two more heavy units had joined it, while the rubble was heaving in another half-dozen spots where trapped units strove to burst free. Forming up in the deep wedge specified, Henry knew, by Deng battle regs, the salvaged machines moved off toward the south and the defenseless town.

"It appears we'll have to evacuate after all," Henry said quietly. "I shall ask Mr. Davis to get off an emergency message to Sector. I can assign a GUTS priority to it, and I think we should have help within perhaps thirty-six hours. I'm no longer on the Navy list, but I still know the old codes."

"That'd be Wednesday," Kibbe said, rising hastily. "Best they can do, General?"

"Considering the distance to the nearest installation capable of mounting a relief mission, thirty-six hours is mildly optimistic, Mr. Mayor. We'll just have to hold out somehow."

There was a sound of hurrying feet, and the door slammed wide as Dub arrived, flushed and panting.

"We seen the big dust-cloud, General Henry," he gasped out. "Is Johnny OK?"

Henry went to the boy and put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. "Johnny did his duty as a soldier, Dub," he said gently. "It's to be expected that there will be casualties."

"What's a casualty mean?" Dub demanded, looking up at the old man.

"It means old Jonah done his job and got himself kilt, as you might say, boy," Cy Kibbe said lazily. Dub went past him to stare at the screen.

"He's under that?" he asked fearfully.

"The grave will be properly marked, Dub," Henry reassured the lad. "His sacrifice will not go unnoticed."

"They
done it," Dub charged, pointing at Kibbe and Frink, now cowering behind the mayor. "I ast Mr. Frink how Johnny was going to unload the smashite and put it in the right place, and he didn't even answer me." The boy began to cry, hiding his face.

"No call to take on, boy," Frink spoke up. "All I done was what I hadda do. Nobody'd blame me." He looked almost defiantly at Henry.

"You could of gone along and unloaded the stuff, instead of blowing Johnny up," Dub charged. "You didn't hafta go and kill him." He advanced on Frink, his fists clenched.

"Now boy, after all it's only a dang machine we're talking about," Kibbe put in, moving to block Dub's approach to Frink. "A machine doing what it was built to do. You can't expect a man to go out there and get himself kilt, too."

Dub turned away and went to the screen, on which could now be seen the slope of rubble, from the floor of the canyon to the aborted road far above, with the great black cavity of the blast site.

"Look!" Dub exclaimed, pointing. Beside the blast pit, rocks were shifting, thrust aside; small stones dribbled down the talus slope—and then the prow of the Bolo appeared, dozing its way out from under the heaped rock fragments, a gaping wound visible where its aft decking was ripped open.

"He's still alive!" Dub cried. "Come on, Johnny! You can do it!"

I
am disoriented by the unexpected blast. Assessing the damage, I perceive that it was not a hit from enemy fire, but rather that the detonation originated in my cargo bin. Belatedly, I realize that I was loaded with explosives and dispatched on a suicide mission. I am deeply disturbed. The Code of the Warrior would require that my commander inform me fully of his intention. This smacks of treachery. Still, it is not for me to judge. Doubtless he did what was necessary. Yet I am grieved that my commander did not feel that he could confide in me. Did he imagine I would shirk my duty? I have suffered grievous damage, but my drive train at least is intact. I shall set aside .003 nanoseconds to carry out a complete self-assessment . . .