The large man following Cory, winced at his words. He was large but not fat. He towered to about six and a half feet. His hair was a thick, iron gray. His handle bar mustache was thick and wider than his broad, square face. The mustache was shot with gray, too."This gentleman is Brennan Sherman. I believe they named a tank after him," Cory said thoughtfully.Sean snickered, and the big man looked at him in surprise."No matter," Cory continued with a shrug. "He is my adult supervision when they let me out of the house," he said with laughing eyes and a straight face."Cory," the big man said in warning, his voice rumbling like earth shifting in a deep cavern."Sorry, Bren," Cory said grasping one of the big man's upper arms in an obvious gesture of respect and love. "I couldn't resist." His fingers didn't encompass more than half the man's bicep."You can never resist," the big man rumbled shaking his head in resignation. He turned to Seth and Sean and nodded in greeting. "It is good to. He'd been assured their quarry had shown no overt signs of hostility. 'But then, we haven't tried to suppress or kill them, have we?' he worried to himself.The mercenaries were spread out in a thin advance line, finger-tip to finger tip, their white camouflage snowsuits blending with the wind-blown snow field. The snow-cat engines stalled five kilometers from their objective and would not restart. The men were on foot, stumbling and struggling toward the gaping hole. They called to report their situation but the radios in their combat helmets were dead. So were the backup radios in their belt packs. All their systems were silent, useless.They struggled forward, blind without their light-enhancing helmet goggles. They could not communicate among themselves except by shouts or hand signals within arms length of each other.Their weapons—mechanical assault rifles and squad automatic weapons—still worked. The RPG firing circuits were fried. Men threw their heavy rocket packs down in.
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