Assault on Atlantis

by Robert Doherty

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE SPACE BETWEEN

  “There’s only one problem,” Earhart said.

  Dane Was examining the golden globe set on the pedestal in the center of the power room. “What’s that?”

  “We need power to get this thing moving and no one has come back with a crystal skull yet.”

  “We have to trust the Ones Before,” Dane said.

  “We don’t even know who or what the Ones Before are,” Earhart pointed out.

  Dane noted that the surface of the globe was marked. He leaned closer. Thin lines curled around the surface. It reminded him of something he had seen before. He felt a strange tingle in his hands.

  “Let’s get going,” Earhart said as she turned toward the tube exiting the power room.

  Dane reluctantly turned from the globe and followed her.

  EARTH TIME LINE IV

  The ship’s engineers and reactor specialists had seemed happy simply to have something to do, although they had at first eyed the crystal skull with disbelief when Frost showed it to them. When he had explained as best he could what he had “seen” and “beard,” their disbelief faded and their interest perked up. They’d been at work ever since.

  Word of the activity had spread quickly in the confined space of the submarine. After all, even though the Nautilus was a relatively large submarine, almost two thirds of that length was taken up by the reactor and shielding. By the second day of work, every member of the crew had been by the officers’ wardroom to see the crystal skull and the intricate wire frame the engineers were weaving around it. Although Frost had described what they were building, he’d had no idea why.

  One of the engineers had tried to explain, as much as he understood, what they were doing. In essence, they were wrapping copper wire around the skull to help make it a part of a Tesla coil, but unlike one any of the engineers had ever seen before. They weren’t sure what the changes would produce, but they were faithful to Frost’s vision.

  “It’s done,” Captain Anderson told Frost as the poet poked his head in the galley for about the fortieth time.

  The skull was enshrined in copper wiring, only glimpses of it still visible. A dozen members of the crew were crowded in the wardroom, admiring the work. Captain Anderson seemed much less than happy that the work had been completed, and Frost knew why, because he had already told the captain what needed to be done next.

  Anderson grabbed a mike hooked up to the ship’s intercom system. He clicked it twice to get everyone’s attention. Then e began. “Men, this is your captain. As you all know, we’ve n doing some special work for Mister Frost. Part of our mission up here. I know many of you have questions as to the exact nature of that mission, as I do,” Anderson looked over at Frost. “We came here because we were ordered to by Naval Command. Those who issued us those orders are dead. Our families are dead. Everyone on the planet other than us is most likely dead, and we will be shortly. That is our reality.

  “Mister Frost believes, though, that there are other people who we can help.” Anderson paused. “I’m going to let Mister Frost tell you the rest.” He held out the mike.

  Frost took it in his liver-spotted hand. He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I” he paused as the captain pointed and whispered. “You have to press the button on the side.”

  Frost nodded. He pressed the button and waited until the brief burst of static passed. “Gentlemen, we are indeed doomed. You have all heard the reports and seen the film footage of the strange craft that destroyed our planet’s atmosphere. I believe you will all agree that craft is not of our world. There are others, not of our world, but like us, who are also threatened by those who flew that craft and attacked us. “We can help them. I cannot explain it all. I ask you to have faith in what we must do.”

  Frost released the button and took several breaths before pushing it again. “It is an axiom that man is at his best when times are the worst. We are facing our worst time, and I ask you to be your best.”

  He released the button and handed the mike to Anderson. “You know what must be done.”

  Anderson took the mike. “I need two volunteers. Two men to take what we have made here in the wardroom and bring it into our reactor core.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  BOUYER

  “Goddamnit, get your men into line!”

  The NCOs were trying to sort out the confusion. Plunging into the Little Big Horn River, thirsty horses and men crowded the ford, vying with each other for water. The three companies resembled a mob, not a military unit. Bouyer’s growing unease seemed to match the growing dust cloud to the north. He felt hollow and loose inside thinking about the numbers it took to make such a cloud of dust. If there was this much confusion now, with no battle engaged, how would it be once they went downstream?

  Bouyer looked over his shoulder one more time. First to e right, where there was no sign of Custer or his two battalions. Then to the left, the direction in which Benteen and his battalion had disappeared a few hours ago. Would Benteen believe him, or was he marching hard, out of supporting distance for the coming battle?

  “Where’s my support?” Reno muttered next to him, his yes searching in the same directions Bouyer’s had.

  Bouyer dug his heels into the flanks of his horse while the noncoms and officers sorted out the mess in the river. Reno followed him. They rode up the west bank of the Little Big Horn and looked to the north, downstream. The valley widened out, with low bluffs enclosing the left and the tree lined river on the right. Reno pulled up his canteen and took a deep swig.

  “I’ll take some of that,” Bouyer said, ignoring the surprise on Reno’s face, The major handed over the canteen.

  Bouyer lifted it to his lips and took a drink. He almost choked on the brackish water that poured down his throat. Reno laughed, an edge to it that Bouyer didn’t like. They both knew that Bouyer had expected a different liquid. The rumor was rampant in the camp that Reno was a drunk.

  “’I’ll support you!’ By thunder, that’s what he said,” Reno snapped, controlling his horse with difficulty, the animal sensing the fear in the air. “’I’ll support you!’ Well, where is he?” Reno laughed wildly again, the sound contradicting the words.

  Bouyer didn’t say anything. He knew the village was ahead. Any damn fool could see the dust from thousands of horses and the smoke from many fires. Bouyer had never seen so much smoke. He knew Bloody Knife was right. Custer wasn’t going to ride through this. This wasn’t going to be another Washita. Of course, he’d known for many years that this battle was going to turn out differently than Custer expected.

  Besides not seeing either of the two other columns, the uncertainty of the space on his flanks bothered Bouyer, and he knew it bothered the major. Reno had been in quite a few fights in the Civil War, and the man had some tactical sense.

  The Little Big Horn didn’t run. In a straight line north but meandered back and forth, east and west, opening and closing the valley in width--not good for a man with only a limited number of troops to advance up through.

  A deployed battalion of cavalry was difficult to control, especially once the firing started. The only ways to issue orders were by yelling, which didn’t work well once the shooting began, or sending messengers, who had the possibility of getting shot before they got to their destination, leaving their message undelivered. Add in the fear of getting killed, factor it by the physical and mental state of the men and horses, and any tactical maneuver could be a recipe for disaster. Bouyer knew professional soldiers didn’t want to admit it, but pure damn luck played the biggest role of all in battle.

  Here, in the valley, Bouyer knew Reno would have to watch his flanks. There weren’t enough men in the battalion to stretch from river to bluffs at the widest parts. Bouyer wondered where the major would post him and the scouts. The command would have to be anchored on the river. If Custer wasn’t behind him, as they both feared, then the general was to the right and Reno had to keep the way op
en either to support Custer, or as briefed, to be supported by him. And the right was where Bouyer wanted to be. He mew he needed to be close enough to reach Custer at the critical juncture.

  Bouyer looked in that direction. On the east bank of the river the bluffs were much higher. It suddenly occurred to him that somewhere behind those bluffs Custer was riding with his five troops. Bouyer didn’t know why he suddenly thought that; from the orders, Custer should be coming this way into the valley behind them, but Bouyer knew it as sure as he knew anything this day, which in sum didn’t amount to too damn much. And just as surely, he knew that Reno knew it, too. He could tell by the way the major was just sitting there, his command mired in the crossing, no longer in a rush to move ahead up the valley floor toward the lodge fires and pony herds.

  And Benteen? Bouyer shook his head. Benteen was exactly where he wanted to be. Out of it. Bouyer could hear Benteen’s voice in his head: Let Custer fall on his own sword, Bouyer shook his head to clear it of thoughts that didn’t do anything to help him right now. He had to trust that each dispersed piece would come together at the right time, although it appeared very unlikely at the moment. Bouyer nodded as Bloody Knife rode up to his side, joining him. He noted that Bloody Knife had the leather satchel containing the crystal un tied off to his pommel.

  Bouyer stiffened as a band of twenty mounted warriors suddenly appeared out of a gully six hundred feet away, then wheeled and disappeared back into their own dust.

  “There is no surprise,” Bloody Knife said in Arikara.

  ‘’There never was,” Bouyer replied sharply in the same tongue. He didn’t bother translating the comment to the major. Reno was ignoring them. Finally turning his attention back to his command.

  G Troop was formed and up the bank now, with lieutenant McIntosh in control. The other two would be up shortly.

  Bouyer stared to the north, his eyes slowly unfocusing. He felt a great weariness seep over him. As if pressed down by the bright sun. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest a little. Just a few moments. Under a tree on the bank of the gently flowing river. He knew what he was to do today was important, but he also felt it would probably end in his death, and he enjoyed life. He had lived far more than the vast majority of men. He’d traveled places only a handful of white men had ever seen. He’d enjoyed the feel of falling snow on his face as much as that of the warm sun at noon on a summer’s day. Why had he been chosen?

  Bouyer’s head snapped up. The troops were up and formed. The dust to the north was greater than before, and he could hear faint war cries carrying through the heavy air. A rush spiked through the fatigue.

  “Forward in fours!” Reno ordered. “Scouts to the left flank,” he added, looking at Bouyer.

  The exposed left. All feeling drained out of his veins. Bloody Knife was watching him, the Indian’s face impassive.

  “Keep my flank covered out there,” Reno said.

  BENTEEN

  They had come across no sign on their march south and west. Benteen wiped sweat off his brow and looked up at the sun blazing overhead in the direction they were moving. He’d had two couriers come from Custer since they had left the main column. The first had ordered them on to the second ridge. The next courier had ordered them to go even farther and been divided again by Custer with Reno’s battalion heading for the valley of the Little Big Horn to attack the village.

  Despite the orders, Benteen had pressed his battalion more and more to the north. He wanted to be as close to the rest of the regiment as possible. He’d looked inside the satchel Bouyer had given him and been startled by what he saw. He wasn’t a religious man and he also thought whatever gods the Indians worshipped were false, but this thing had some kind of power, of that be bad no doubt.

  If only Custer hadn’t split off Reno. That bothered Benteen more than anything. Benteen could understand Custer wanting to get him out of the way. He’d always known that Custer would cut him out of any fight.

  But sending Reno into the valley first and Custer following with a supporting force--that wasn’t like the general at all. The son of a bitch wanted to be at the head of the column when it ran through the Indian camp. That way that damn reporter could--Benteen’s mind froze, locking him in the saddle. He pulled off to the side and let the first several pairs of his column go by as his eyes turned to the northeast.

  He knew the valley of the Little Big Horn. And now he knew exactly what Custer had planned. The damn fool wasn’t going to support Reno. He was using Reno as a blocking force to keep the Indians from escaping upriver. But you didn’t send blocking force in the attack against a superior force, and there was absolutely no doubt in Benteen’s mind that Reno’s one hundred and twenty-five men were vastly outnumbered.

  Benteen closed his eyes and thought it through, putting · himself in Custer’s place with Custer’s mind. Custer was afraid the Sioux would run. Reno was to bottle them up from the south and engage the warriors. The village would be farther north downstream. Custer would want to flank the village either from the west or east, so he would either swing south around Reno and march to the west of the Little Big Horn or he would cut north before the river and stay on the east side. The west was too far. Custer could never push his tired horses to get there in time before Reno was decisively engaged. So it had to be from the east. On the other side of the river.

  Benteen moved then, galloping up to the front of the column, shouting commands. They turned hard right and began marching to the north, violating his last orders from Custer.

  MARTIN

  Giovanni Martini had once served as a drummer boy for Garibaldi in Italy, so although he was new to the United States, he was no newcomer to armies. One thing he had learned early in his army career in Italy was to appear dumber than he was. Smart men got used like sponges until they were wrung dry. Dumb troopers got to take things much slower and weren’t often called on to do extra duty. Since coming to the United States several years ago, he had been unable to get a job so he had enlisted in the Anny. His name was changed to John Martin on the enlistment forms, and he was sent out west to serve.

  Martin had exaggerated his lack of understanding of the English language as a buffer to keep himself from being worked too hard. Unfortunately, a few days earlier, that tactic had backfired for Martin. The H Troop first sergeant had grown tired of trying to get the trumpeter to do as he was told, and when the tasking came down from the regimental adjutant for a trumpeter to serve with headquarters, the first sergeant had, as first sergeants are wont to do, sent what he considered his most expendable man: John Martin, who didn’t seem to understand English.

  Martin, of course, understood much more than he let on. Riding next to Custer, he felt like he was in the center of the storm as the general issued orders and conferred with scouts. Major Reno’s column had disappeared as Custer’s five companies had climbed behind a hill on the north side of Ash Creek, west of the Little Big Horn. The four remaining Crow scouts were riding with Custer, keeping close to their commander.

  The land here lay in long swells leading to bluffs cut with ravines. It was impossible to see very far in any direction except from the very top of one of those bluffs and even then tin didn’t like this wide-open country. He felt it was deceptive in its openness with death lurking in the form of savage red-men behind every hill.

  He also was less than thrilled about the enemy they were · after. In Italy the fighting had gotten pretty bloody, but when a soldier put his hands up and surrendered, it was all over. They were gentlemen in war on the Continent. Here, there was no surrender. Martin had seen several scalped and mutilated bodies, the results of a trooper wandering too far from the camp or civilians caught out in no-man’s-land. Not a single one had looked like they’d had an easy death.

  Martin’s band crept down to his side where his .45-caliber Model 1872 Colt single-action revolver rested in its holster. It was a reliable weapon although difficult to reload. There was great debate among the soldiers about what was
the best way · to kill oneself with the gun. There was no debate that suicide was the desired course of action in the face of capture by the red man. All one had to do was see some of the bodies, as Martin had, and he was convinced a bullet through the brain was to be preferred. He had twenty-four cartridges for the pistol, counting the six already in the cylinder.

  Across his lap, Martin held the Model 1873 Springfield Carbine, which was standard issue for the regiment. It was a single-shot, breach-loaded rifle. He had twenty-four rounds for it in canvas loops on the cartridge belt looped over his · shoulder and another seventy-six in a larger cartridge bag attached to his saddle. Martin was not happy with the Springfield. It shot accurately enough, but it was too slow. He’d seen the Henry repeater rifles that some scouts at Fort Lincoln had and he wondered why the Army hadn’t bought those. Another problem with the Springfield was that the cartridge cases sometimes split after being fired and would not eject · when the breech was opened to insert a new cartridge. This malfunction required the firer to dig out the split casing with a knife--not something one wanted to do in the beat of combat.