"Brilliant," said Colonel Denis Deschamps, breathing heavily. "Just brilliant."
Deschamps was looking through his binoculars at a little East Anglian town, huddled behind a fence of crosshatched orange laser beams, and the rebels—the stinking, bloody, good-for-nothing rebels—that cluttered its parapet. The laser defences flickered every time one of Deschamps' EMP shells fell upon the power plant in the centre of town; and since the shells were falling like rain and their detonations crackled like thunder, it was undoubtable that, soon—very soon—the defences would fail completely. And when they did, the rebels would be good as dead.
"Quite, sir," Sergeant Leeds agreed from somewhere near the Colonel's elbow. "At this pace we'll be home by week's end."
Deschamps lowered his binoculars, but kept his gaze fixed on the town. "It'll be a bloody business before then, though," he said. "God save us."