filled

with Mutes. 'We'll try one to six, bottom line port and starboard,

Mister Ford,' said Hartmann, in a matter-of-fact voice.

'Head on six, bottom line,' replied the Systems Exec.

'Pipe steam!" The sound pierced the layers ofarmoured steel, lead,

heat and sound insulation that lined the shells of the wagons, and for

those outside it was far more terrifying than the weird noises made by

the Mute wind-whips. It was a chili, shrill, ear-piercing shriek. A

hideous, ball-shrivelling banshee wail that drilled into the brain,

froze the heart. Invisible, laser-thin jets of high-pressure steam

shot from the rows of nozzles along the curving'undersides of the lead

wagons; cutting through the air at supersonic speed, with the keenness

of a surgeon's scalpel and the irresistible, tearing force of a

buzz-saw.

The impact of the steam jets upon the Mute warriors surpassed the

horror evoked by Dante and indelibly engraved by Dor& Caught completely

unawares, locked in hand-to-hand combat with the last, unlucky linemen,

and with escape hampered by the debris in which they found themselves

entangled, a great mass of Mutes were blown ?apart. Skin, flesh,

muscle were shredded, blasted from the bone; limbs were severed, bodies

cut in half, their contents splattered in all directions, blood spurted

onto some of the watching camera lenses, throwing a red curtain over

the carnage.

Even those who escaped the pulverising impact of this unseen fury were

not totally spared. As the scything jets cooled to the point of

visibility, the survivors were enveloped in clouds of scalding,

blinding, blistering steam.

The rear ranks of the M'Call Bears wavered, then turned on their heels

and fled; those warriors who had been scarred by the breath of the

snake but who were still on their feet ran, stumbled or tried to drag

themselves to safety. Most were cut down by Colonel Moore's men and

The Lady's gunners.

'Clear the screens,' said Hartmann. He covered his face and pressed

his fingertips against his closed eyes in a vain effort to wipe the

blood-stained images from his retina. His fingers could not reach deep

enough. What he had witnessed had already imprinted itself on his

brain: had become another gruesome page in his own private war diary

that would haunt his mind's eye in the darkness when sleep eluded

him.

He composed himself and addressed the Systems Exec. 'Cap the line, Mr

Ford."

The Second Systems Engineer shut down the jets. 'One to six,

capped."

Hartmann called up Clay. 'Lady Lou to Anvil Two.

Report combat-sit, over."

'Anvil Two. Remaining hostiles withdrawing northeastwards under fire,

over."

Colonel Moore came on the air. 'Anvil One to Lady Lou.

It's all over. They're on the run." His voice was shaky but

exultant.

'Roger, Anvil One. Hold your position." Hartmann suddenly felt

weighed down by the responsibility he carried as wagon master yet, at

the same time, he was also sharply aware of the advantages of his

position. He had been able to wipe the horror from the screens but

there was no escape for his men out there on the ground. They had

fought and died, had been subjected to the gruesome spectacle of a

couple of hundred Mutes being turned into boiled mince right under

their noses and were now faced with having to clean up the resulting

mess before The Lady could get underway.

Hartmann put himself through to the flight section and faced up with

his F.O.O. 'How many 'hawks can we put up, Mr Baxter?"

'Four sir. Naylor, and three silvers. Brickman, Fazetti and White."

Hartmann hesitated. 'This'Il be their first real operation.

Will they be able to handle it - I mean, after what's happened?"

'They can't wait to go, sir,' said the F.O.O.