the smuggler’s bible

Ruza

Ruza readies the talons of the hawk and waits for the captain to order the dive. The earth below swells darkly in her viewfinder, scanning erratically until coming to rest on the plodding shape of a bolson crawler. Thick legs vent steam as they jerk and heave under the armored hemisphere of its command module.

A broad wake of dust spreads out behind the tank, billowing across miles of brown grass. Ruza sneers in contempt. Might as well burrow with your belly that close to the ground.

“Target, bombardier?” the captain says.

“Aye, sir.”

“Then let those bastards have it.”