It was a strange balance. The Bantag did not have a single ironclad on this front. The few rocket launchers they had were expended, and none of their artillery could stand in the open against the attack. Yet once mounted they could ride rings around the machines and the marching column of 3rd Corps. He looked back to the west, where 3rd Corps, nearly eleven thousand men, were moving through the dry knee-high grass, looking like an undulating blue wave traversing a green-brown sea.
Neither side could now come to grips with the other.
The Bantags did have one serious advantage, though—they could chose the place to stand and fight. He could not. They had mobility both tactically and strategically, his side had the firepower. If they could bring up firepower as well, it could turn deadly. And that was part of the plan as well.
He walked in front of his machine, surveying the ground, remembering the maps he had studied so intently that they were' etched clearly in his mind. They were just under twenty miles out from Tyre, a damn good march for the first day. A shallow stream was directly ahead, several hundred yards down the slope, its water dark and muddied by the passing of the Horde riders.
“We camp here,” Vincent announced.
“We’ve still got four hours or more of daylight, we could make another eight to ten miles.”
Vincent shook his head.
“No. This is far enough. Besides, I want the men dug in, stockade with sod walls, and we’ve got water down there for the night. The next stream is six miles farther on, and if the Bantags have any sense, they’ll fight us for it.”
“Grand, and we chew them apart.”
“There’s time for that, plenty of time,” Vincent said absently. “Let the pressure build some more first. Besides, we’re not the main show, that’s Hans’s job. Remember, we’re the diversion, the bait. We bed down early tonight, do a hard march tomorrow, and should nearly reach the head of the rail line they’re driving west from the Great Sea. Jurak has undoubtedly figured by now that we are attacking here. He might already have dispatched troops and ironclads from Xi’an and Fort Hancock to converge and meet us in defense of that rail line. Let’s give him time to get there and make the show easier for Hans.”
Hans. He pulled out his watch. He should be hitting just about now, he thought. God help him.
* * *
It wasn’t the time to vomit but the last two hours had been pure hell. Leaning over weakly, he retched, but there was nothing left to give. The ship bucked and surged, rising up on another thermal of hot air, then plunging back down.
“Is that Xi’an?” Jack shouted.
“What?”
“Damn it, Hans, pull yourself together.”
He nodded bleakly, looking forward. They’d been over land for the last hour, bisecting the arcing curve of the river up to Xi’an. The cloud cover had been building since early afternoon, forcing them to drop lower, Jack expressing increasing anxiety about the prospect of a thunderstorm. If a storm did come up, it could wipe out the entire mission.
Hans raised his field glasses, bracing his elbows on the forward panel, trying to compensate for the unceasing motion of the airship, which was bobbing like a cork on a windswept sea.
It had to be it. In spite of the surging motion of the ship he caught glimpses of a vast walled compound, ships anchored, and for a brief instant a place that looked all too chillingly familiar, the small fortress village half a dozen miles below Xi’an, where he had holed up after escaping from the slave camps. The aerosteamer steadied for a moment, and the world beneath him seemed to come into sharp focus. The city was spread out along the east bank of the river, ancient brick walls glowing red in the late-afternoon sun.
Dozens of ships lined the docks below the bluffs, most of them galleys, several steamers, the rest traditional Chin junks. A dark seething mass swarmed the docks, looking like a stirred-up nest of ants … Chin slaves. From the air the city had a fairy-tale quality to it, a towering pagoda in the center, buildings with steeply pitched red-tile roofs, dozens of small temples dotting the skyline. Yet as he steadied his field glasses he could sense, more than actually see, that a fair part of the city was abandoned, derelict homes, weed-choked streets, collapsed roofs. Even as they labored for their masters the pathetic residents of Xi’an were dying, chosen for the moon feast, transported to work on the railroads, factories, and supply lines, or simply worked to death.
Checking again on the village where he had fought off the Bantag till help arrived, he gauged the distance up the river. There was no doubt about it: They were approaching Xi’an, main supply base for the Bantag Horde, the transition point for supplies coming from the heart' of the Chin realm.
Two hundred miles eastward was that black heart of the Bantag Empire, the vast prison camps and factories where millions of Chin slaves labored to support the war. That heart was his ultimate goal, but first he had to seize this city. Everything the Bantag made to support their war effort had to come through here, off-loading from the trains to be loaded on ships that would transport it across the Great Sea, five hundred miles northward to be off-loaded yet again for the final run to Capua. This was the weak link in that vast chain.
This was the linchpin of Varinna’s plan. A raid deep into the realm of the Bantag to seize the docks, sink the ships, burn the supplies—to cut the precious lifeline. Vincent was the diversion, to present Jurak with two threats, the prospect of their seizing a base on the Great Sea and with luck draw off some forces before his own raid struck. If Vincent was successful, all the better.
“Where do we land?” Jack cried.
“Damned if I know,” Hans replied. “Can’t you remember?”
“I only flew over the damned place once, and that was a year ago. The second time I flew to where you were, then got the hell out. Damn it, Hans, we should have sent in at least one reconnaissance flight before doing this.”
Hans shook his head. One such flight might have tipped their hand. This one was going to be blind.
“Think they’re on to us?” Jack asked.
“Have to be by now; they must have coast watchers reporting us coming in.”
The city was just several miles out. Hans anxiously scanned the riverbanks, looking for a place to touch down that was close enough that they could directly storm the harbor area.
Nothing.
“We’re losing another ship.”
It was their top gunner calling in.
“She’s going down. Damn, it’s a Bantag flyer!”
His voice was drowned out by the staccato roar of a Gatling, the vibration of the topside gun firing shaking the cabin.
Jack held the ship steady, still aimed straight at the city, while anxiously scanning the sky above, looking for the enemy ship.
“There, north of the city wall, looks like an airfield!” Hans cried.
“That’s it then! We’re going in!” Jack shouted. He nosed the ship down, picking up speed.
“Got him! He’s breaking to starboard. He’s burning!”
Hans leaned forward, looking out the side window and caught a glimpse of a twin-engine airship, trailing fire, going down.
“Topside, how many still with us?”
“Somewhere around thirty-five I think.”
Hans said nothing. Better than he hoped but still only 350 men.
They dropped through two thousand feet, the wires on the wings singing.
Hans cleared the speaker tube to the cargo department.
“Ketswana, get ready!”
“About time.”
Engines howling, the airship leveled out a hundred feet above the marshy western shore, then turned as they reached the river just south of the city and started to race straight in. Straight ahead he could see startled faces looking up, Chin slaves on the docks and around the warehouses, hands raised, pointing at the incoming assault. A scattering of Bantag were running along the walls. A stream of tracers snapped past the open window, startling Hans, it was one of the gunners flying behind them sweeping
the walls.
“Fly us over the ships, then bank around into the airfield,” Hans shouted.
“Why?”
“I want the Chin on the docks to see our insignia so they know what the hell is happening.”
Jack banked the ship, turning more easterly, heading straight in toward the city, then banked over sharply, port-side wing dropping down. They were directly above the docks lining the river below the city walls, white stars of the Republic exposed on the bottom side of the wings, an insignia clearly different than the human skulls of the Bantag. In spite of the howling of the engines and the shriek of the wind, he distinctly heard thousands of voices rising up, excited cries of hope.
The nausea was gone, he hung on, watching as land, river, city, and sky wheeled in front of him. A bullet snapped through the cabin, shattering a window, glass flying.
They leveled out, heading straight toward a row of galleys berthed side by side, each of them loaded down with two land ironclads. A steamer, looking vaguely like an old-style Mississippi riverboat, towing two barges was out in the middle of the river, barges loaded down with crates behind it, heading downstream. Again the staccato roar of the Gatling from above; tracers tore into the first barge. It ignited in a towering fireball, debris soaring hundreds of feet heavenward.
“God damn that idiot!” Jack screamed, banking away from the explosion. “Cease fire up there!”
The boy was shouting with joy, tracers sweeping into the second barge, igniting the ammunition aboard that one as well. It looked like a vast fireworks show gone berserk. Jack continued to turn away, flying up over the top of the city wall, gape-mouthed Bantag looking straight up. Swarms of Chin on the docks were running, panic-stricken.
Hans was filled with a mad exhilaration, holding on to the side railing as Jack banked sharply in the opposite direction, leveling out, sweeping along the city wall, Bantag so close below that Hans could not resist the urge to stick his hand out the side window and offer a universal rude gesture. He was tempted to man the forward gun but knew he had to stay focused on the battle. Down in the narrow twisting lanes of the tightly packed city he could see hundreds pouring out of buildings into the streets, pointing.
They reached the northwest corner of the wall. The airfield was less than a quarter mile ahead, but now they were coming in at a right angle to the long axis. A Bantag air machine was starting to lift off, crawling into the sky, turning toward them.
Jack slammed the throttles back, banked to the west out over the river again until they reached the opposite shore. He then slapped the wheel in the opposite direction. The airship seemed to stand on its starboard wing as it pivoted, turning to line up on an easterly heading, aiming straight at the airfield. Jack eased the throttles back even farther.
Hans lost sight of the Bantag airship, felt a shudder, and caught a glimpse of a tracer snapping past, return fire from above. As they turned, he saw one of their aerosteamers going down, port wing folding up, caught in the fireball explosion of the barges, the machine falling like a moth with a wing torn off. The ship crashed into the river, the blue glow of a hydrogen fire soaring up, consuming the canvas and wicker framework.
The sky was filled with airships, flying about like a swarm of confused and angry bees, heading in every possible direction. The Bantag airship flew right through the middle, tracers streaking in from all points of the compass as a score or more gunners fired on it. The Bantag machine exploded and crashed into the dock, striking down dozens of Chin. Another ball snapped through the cabin past Hans’s head, fired from one of their own ships in all the confusion.
“This is gonna be tight!” Jack shouted, as they lined up on the airfield.
It wasn’t much, Hans realized, nothing more than a narrow swath of grass, the west side ending at the bluffs of the river, the other three sides surrounded by a jumbled sprawl of warehouses, slave encampments, and round wooden buildings that looked like oversize Bantag yurts.
The airship bobbed down, dropping below the rim of the bluff, Jack slammed in throttles, nosed up, cursing. They seemed to hang in midair, drifting in toward the bluff. Hans caught a glimpse of a red streamer fluttering in the wind at the end of the strip. They were coming in to land with the wind at their backs.
The ship barely climbed over the rim of the bluff and there was a sharp blow. They were down!
The ship bounced, rolled down the length of the airfield. Hans saw several dozen Bantag standing to one side, all of them motionless, completely surprised.
Jack let his ship roll out to the very end of the airstrip, clearing the way for the rest to come in, turning at the last second, slamming the throttles down.
“Everyone out! Get out, damn it!”
Hans unstrapped from his seat, stepped down, pulled open the bottom hatch, grabbed his carbine out from under his chair. It was a drop of a dozen feet, and he suddenly realized he couldn’t negotiate the ladder while holding on to his gun.
“Move, damn it. move!” Jack was crying.
Hans dropped his weapon through the hatch and slid down the rope ladder, holding on to either side, burning his hands. Hitting'the ground hard he clutched at his carbine, came up to his knees and levered it opened, pulled a cartridge from his pocket, and slammed it in. Some of the Bantag were still standing along the edge of the strip, watching. He stood up and came out from under the machine, moving along the wing, almost stepping into a propeller that was still spinning.
Ketswana was by his side, carbine raised. At a walk Hans started toward the Bantag, for a moment not really sure of what to do. They were mostly gray pelts and young. Another airship skidded past him, turning, spinning about as it ground to a halt. He looked down the airstrip. Airships were lining up, coming in, one after the other, one of them trailing smoke from a burning wing. It never made it, slamming into the bluff just below the airstrip, exploding. The ship behind it rose up, banking hard, nearly clipping the city wall with its wing, leveled out, then flew down the length of the field to come around again for another try.
He continued to walk toward the Bantag. They stood frozen like statues, most likely not even comprehending what was happening. Their inactivity told him volumes … the attack was a complete and total surprise, the arrival of the air fleet a complete shock. He was so close he could almost talk to them in a normal voice. He paused, and in spite of his hatred he couldn’t bring himself to raise his gun; it was too much like murder.
Suddenly they came to life. One of them fumbled at his belt, pulled out a pistol, and raised it. Others started to draw their weapons as well. Ketswana leveled his weapon, fired, pitching one of them over backwards. Shots erupted, Hans continued forward, a bullet snipping past his face. He took steady aim on the forehead of a gray pelt and dropped him clean. Levering open his carbine he reloaded, looked up, and saw the last of them running toward the wall.
Hans looked back over his shoulder. More men were swarming out from under the grounded airships. Eight were already down, two more came in, landing almost wingtip to wingtip, one of them coming straight at him. He sprinted to get out of the way, dropping to the ground as the ship veered, its starboard wing clipping the side of a shack, a propeller popping off, spinning across the field like a berserk toy of a giant child, tearing up great gouts of dirt, then disintegrating into splinters. The ship lurched to a stop, port-side wing pivoting over Hans’s head. The crew compartment underneath was already open, Chin soldiers spilling out, jabbering, cursing.
One of Ketswana’s men raised a bugle, sounding the rally call, and men came sprinting from all directions. An airship screamed past overhead, coming from the opposite direction of the landing traffic, its topside and forward gun firing upward. He caught a glimpse of a Bantag machine turning away, fire billowing from its hydrogen bag, pilot tumbling out of the forward cab, a silk umbrella opening. The Bantag pilot drifted toward the airstrip. Before Hans could say anything, guns were raised, riddling the warrior, who hung limp in his harness.
More men were fallin
g in around Hans. Someone had his guidon. He had completely forgotten about bringing that along.
He scanned the wall facing the airstrip. There was a gate, but it was already closed. No, get lost in the warren of streets. It was the docks, get the docks, round up the Chin out there, then take the city from that side.
He looked back over at the airstrip. More ships were still coming in. What’s on the other side, those wooden yurtlike buildings? Barracks for the Bantag. If so we could lose our ships.
“Jack?”
“Right here.”
“Round up fifty men or so; I want a defensive perimeter on the other side of the field. Once the last airship lands and off-loads, start turning them around, get them back up in the air again to provide support.”
He started off without even waiting for a reply, racing down the length of the airfield. More ships were landing; one was on its side, burning fiercely, survivors hanging out of the side of the cargo compartment, dropping to the ground and crawling away.
A rattle of shots erupted from along the wall. He looked up, saw more Bantag up there, firing at the aerosteamers on the field.
He detailed off a dozen men, shouting for them to suppress the fire,.and at the same instant an airship, banking sharply, winged overhead, its topside and nose gunners pouring a stream of Gatling fire down on the wall. Good, someone up there was thinking.
He pushed on, breathing hard, not used to the running, feeling his heart pounding, fluttering. He slowed for an instant urging Ketswana to push forward. There was a brief slap of pain in his chest that almost stole his breath away.
Damn, not now. He bent over, a Chin soldier slowing, coming up face filled with fear.
“Hans shot?”
“No. No, I’m fine.”
He stood back up, placing his hand on the young soldier’s arm to steady himself. The shiver of pain passed.
He started forward again, rounding the northwest corner of the wall. The shipyard and docks were far bigger than he had realized from the air. To his right, on the north side of the landing strip, were a row of boat sheds, bows of what looked to be seagoing ironclads sticking out. If any of those ships could get up steam and make it out into the river, they were finished. If we could capture them, though, he thought with a grin, Bullfinch could play hell with Bantag shipping. Catching the eye of a Chin sergeant leading a detachment, he pointed toward the boat sheds. The sergeant didn’t need to be told. He saluted, shouted for his men to follow, and ran off. Directly below his feet, less than a hundred feet away, was the burning wreckage of an aerosteamer sticking out of the river. He saw several survivors crawling up onto the muddy bank.
Men of War Page 20
