“According to the specs,” continued Doc, “these suits are coated with an off-market hardened shell built with layers of heat-resistant and shock-absorbing blends of natural and synthetic fibers. Similar in concept to Kevlar, Nomex, and Technora, but at least two or possibly three orders of magnitude more durable. This is a whole new class of aramids, blending polymers, graphene, spider silk, and other composite materials. Frankly, fellas, I’ve never seen anything like this, and I suspect no one else has. It’s new, and it’s almost certainly proprietary tech that is, or will soon be, the cornerstone of Kuga’s line of equipment for the PMC trade.”

“What are its limitations?” asked Church.

“There were test results in with the material Ledger gave to Toys. Unless this is science fiction, it’ll stop armor-piercing bullets up to and including hardened steel, tungsten, and even tungsten carbide in a copper or cupronickel jacket.”

Wilson said, “Good lord.”

“Not sure the good Lord himself could penetrate this stuff,” said Doc. “There’s a whole set of test results insisting that this thing can take an RPG in the chest and keep going.”

The room was silent.

“And,” said Doc brightly, “it gets worse.”

“How much worse?” asked Church.

“Well, the unit itself has a max load capacity of fourteen hundred pounds, not including the driver. The carapace has fittings to attach a modified M134 minigun and two five-thousand-round belts. Other nifty options include a launcher for 40 × 46 mm grenades, with an auto feeder capable of twenty shots. That launcher can carry a variety of party favors, too, including high-explosive M441 and XM1060 thermobarics.”

Wilson’s face was pale, and Doc wasn’t sure he’d blinked once since she started.

“There’s some reference to a flame unit,” continued Doc, “but because of tank size, my guess is that it would be attached to a second unit.”

Bug cleared his throat. “So … if I’m hearing this right, we’re talking about a bulletproof, flameproof personal tank?”

“Yes, and a right spritely one, too. There’s a mode for normal pace, but if they want to push the batteries, it can run, climb stairs, and turn on a dime. So it’s a tank that can chase you up a flight of stairs, outrun you, and send you to Jesus faster than you can spit.”

Doc, who was always at her most cheerful when things were at their worst, positively beamed.

“Now,” she said brightly, “want to hear the really bad part?”

CHAPTER 99

DAS VERARBEITUNGSZENTRUM

CELL 13

Ghost found his voice and gave a sharp bark of warning, turning, his tail whipping up, muzzle wrinkling. There were voices outside, closer than the gunfire, coming toward this cell. Two men speaking. Not in German or English. Or in Catalan, for that matter. They spoke Romanian.