Assault on Atlantis

by Robert Doherty

  They moved forward of the Nautilus about a hundred yards to the point where they couldn’t see their ship anymore through the swirling snow. Both halted. The one holding the skull hesitated, then put it down on the ice, expecting it to melt through and disappear.

  It didn’t

  Instead, as soon as it was released. The skull rose up and came to a hover four feet above the ice, unaffected by the strong wind that blew by.

  The skull shot out bolts of blue into the descending snow. Directly in front of the two sailors, the air crackled and snapped. Both men took an involuntary step backward as a ,lack oval three feet wide by six feet long, opened. It began to grow larger.

  A crashing noise from behind diverted their attention for a moment. The large bow of the Nautilus appeared, smashing through the ice. Someone was on top of the deck, waving at them. They walked closer. A slab of ice being broken lifted both of them higher. They staggered to remain upright.

  A sailor on the front deck held out a loop of cut hose. The first man lifted his arm, hooked and caught hold of it. He was swung onto the deck. The second did the same, just as the nose of the Nautilus hit the black circle. The three men were silhouetted by blue against the black.

  As if pulled through, the Nautilus increased speed and snapped out of sight, and the man who had rescued the two suited sailors screamed in agony.

  THE SPACE BETWEEN

  Earhart jumped to her feet as a wall of black water surged up and toward the sphere. She slipped as the water crashed over her legs. Dane grabbed her arm and held on, half expecting kraken tentacles to attack. He blinked as the blunt gray nose of a submarine of a type he had never seen appeared fewer than fifty feet away. It was coming straight toward the sphere, and Dane helped Earhart farther up to the very top.

  The bow of the sub hit the sphere with a solid thud, bringing the craft to a dead stop. There were three figures on the front deck. Two standing, dressed in bulky yellow suits streaked with black as if they’d been hit with a blowtorch. The third was prone, unmoving, his uniform and skin fried. Another casualty in the war. Dane found he felt little for whoever the man was--no, that wasn’t quite right he realized, it was more he couldn’t afford to focus on it, to allow himself to feel. He realized it was a sad state of affairs, and death was just a small speed bump in events.

  Dane now saw the writing on the side of the sail: Nautilus.

  “I think we’re about to meet Mister Frost,” he said to Earhart.

  A hatch on the side of the sail clanged open and several men came out of the submarine and made their way forward. Foremost among them was an old man with white hair. Dane and Earhart walked down the sphere until they were next to the high bow of the Nautilus.

  “Mister Frost?” Dane asked.

  Frost nodded. “How did you know?”

  “I’ve seen you--and this submarine--in a vision.”

  “Then do you know what happens next?” Frost asked.

  ‘1 haven’t seen it,” Dane said, “but we need to get this”—he pointed down at the sphere—“to an Earth time line where we can gather something from the air, then return with it back to my time line.”

  Frost stared at him, obviously understanding little of what Dane had just said. He could see the crewmen gathered around their dead comrade.

  “We still don’t have power,” Earhart said.

  Dane turned to her. He felt old and tired. “Actually, I think we might have enough power to take the first step.”

  “Where?”

  Dane nodded toward the Nautilus. “There.”

  “The reactor?”

  “The crew.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  RENO

  “I thought I saw the gray troop up therein Girard yelled, pointing to the bluffs on the east of the river.

  Reno looked in the indicated direction, but he saw nothing · moving. And if Custer was up there, Reno knew he was in a very bad place. His firepower was down by one-fourth simply by the fact that a dismounted skirmish line required every fourth man to hold the other three men’s horses. The other three men were part of the skirmish line that stretched from the river on the right to the scouts far to the left on the low bluff.

  Mitchell!” Reno called out His cook came forward, half bent over, as many of the men were, making their target space smaller for the bullets that were whizzing past.

  “Go tell Custer we are engaged against hundreds--no make that thousands of hostiles. We need support immediately!”

  Mitchell looked about, fear in his eyes. “Where do I go, sir?”

  Reno pointed to the high bluffs. “He’s behind those. Find him! Tell him I can’t hold much longer.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mitchell ran, hopped on his horse and was gone.

  Reno felt a moment of doubt. Had he halted his charge too soon? Could he have carried it into the village? Then he looked to the front and all doubt was gone. He would be lucky to hold this line, never mind attack farther.

  The men were steady, Reno saw. They were holding their own so far. He watched as a trooper staggered back as if punched, holding his gut, blood pouring over his fingers, a surprised look on his face.

  But still there was no concerted assault by the Sioux. There had to be thousands, Reno calculated, looking at the long lines of lodges as far as he could see above the smoke that was drifting across the battlefield.

  The firing was picking up. God, Reno thought, we’re going to run out of ammunition. His pistol was in his hand, and he fired as he spotted two warriors ride out of the powder fog toward the line.

  The warriors turned and rode back, disappearing. Reno blinked. There was something flickering in the air and then he realized what it was--arrows falling out of the sky on a high trajectory. Most missed but occasionally one found its mark and tore through flesh. Reno’s shoulders involuntarily hunched up, waiting for the impact of a dart from the sky. He saw one of the horse handlers lose control and the four horses rushed back the way they came.

  Someone came galloping down the line and Reno leveled · his pistol at the figure, pausing as he recognized the man. lieutenant Varnum’s horse was foaming at the mouth. “They’re infiltrating along the trees by the river!” he yelled.

  Reno looked past Varnum toward the river. If they were cut off there, it was all over. The battalion would be surrounded. Reno looked back down the valley, watching the four horses gallop away into the dust that had been raised during the charge.

  “The left flank’s in the air!” Varnum continued. ‘’The scouts have nothing they can anchor on. They could get rolled!”

  “Where’s Custer?” Reno demanded.

  “I don’t know, sir, but the hostiles are getting behind us along the river!”

  “Hold here!” Reno ordered. He mounted and rode to the rear, through the dust until he could see clearly. Nothing. Reno closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then turned his horse around and rode back into the dust cloud toward the firing.

  “Steady men,” he called as he rode along the line. ‘’Pick your targets. Don’t waste bullets if they’re out of range.”

  “Sir!” It was Captain Moylan of A Troop. “The line’s too bin. If they rush us, we’ll break!”

  “What?” Reno flinched as a horrible scream exploded from a wounded trooper’s mouth. The man had both hands on an arrow shaft that was sticking up out of his chest.

  “The lines too thin, sir!” Moylan repeated. “I don’t know why they haven’t rushed us yet. They’ve got the numbers.”

  “The left,” Varnum said, pointing. There was a great dust cloud there. ‘’They’re rolling it. That’s why they haven’t hit us in the center yet with any force.”

  “What should I do?” Reno asked.

  Varnum’s lip curled in disgust, but Moylan had no time for that. “Pull into the trees, sir. Get the horses under cover. We’ll lose them out here, and if we lose them we’re dead.”

  “Yes,” Reno nodded. “Yes. Do it.” The plan made sense. Move to the trees n
ear the river for cover. Then he could anchor his flank on the river.

  Moylan was already gone, issuing the commands to his troops. Reno began giving orders, trying to keep some order as the battalion slipped to the right, into the cover of the trees.

  Reno gratefully rode his horse down into a cut, where the river had once flowed, before taking its current course. He had a moment’s hope. This could be a good defensive position. But as he dismounted he saw that all was confusion and getting worse. Visibility was worse among the trees than it had been in the open. Indians were infiltrating behind them along the river and through the trees. Gunpowder smoke was growing even thicker. The troops were mixed up, and command and control were difficult.

  And then there was more smoke, black smoke. Reno coughed. The savages were setting the woods on fire. He spun about. He could see the sparkling water of the little Big Horn dancing over stones. On the far side of the river were high bluffs, a steep cut going up.

  Reno turned back. He saw Captain Moylan. Bloody Knife · came up and signed. Yes, yes, Reno signed back. Hostiles behind them, all around. Bloody Knife was gone, back into the line, fighting. It was all hectic, confusing.

  “We have to pull back!” Reno yelled at Moylan.

  Moylan looked at him in astonishment. “To where?”

  Reno pointed at the cut.

  “We’ll never make it,” Moylan protested. “They’ll cut us down crossing the river.

  “They’ll roast us here!” Reno yelled back. “If we get up to the high ground, we can reunite the regiment!”

  “We don’t know where Custer is,” argued Moylan. “He could be coming up the valley. Maybe we can fight back south,” Moylan suggested.

  Keno moved around the perimeter, trying to get an idea of how his force was faring. He could be coming up the valley. Maybe we can fight back south,” Moylan suggested.

  Reno moved around the perimeter. Trying to get an idea of how his force was faring. He came across Bouyer loading his rifle and firing calmly. Isaiah Dome, the black scout, was near Bouyer, also firing away. Bloody Knife was also there, carefully firing his rifle.

  Where will the Sioux attack come from? Reno signed to Bloody Knife.

  Bloody Knife lowered his rifle and looked thoughtful for a second, then his head exploded, splattering blood and brains into Reno’s face. Reno blinked blood out of his eyes.

  A great shout rose from the Indians’ lines. Reno looked up as bile rose in his throat to see a massive force of hundreds of hostiles coming forward from the northeast.

  Reno vomited. Then spit. “Across the river, men! Fall back across the river to the high ground Mount up and ride!”

  Some heard him and moved. Most didn’t. A trooper in the middle of the first group was shot and tumbled from his horse. Reno suddenly realized there were Indians along both banks of the river, but it was too late to rescind the order. It would be a desperate gauntlet to run, but there was no other way to go. And if they spent any longer down here they would be out of ammunition. Even if Custer wasn’t up there, the pack train had to be. And they needed the rounds the mules carried.

  “Go!” Reno urged his men. The word spread and the battalion dissolved, flowing toward the river. Indian riders appeared, mixing in with the troopers, and it was a desperate battle, men firing at each other at point-blank range. Hand-to-hand combat developed as Indians dragged troopers off their horses.

  Like a magnet, though, the cut on the far side drew Reno’s men. The terrain ruled. It was the only way they could go. The water wasn’t wide, perhaps twenty feet, and shallow.

  Reno turned as he heard lieutenant McIntosh call out. The lieutenant staggered and fell. Reno tried to turn back to get him, but the wave of retreating troopers was too strong. He was pushed out toward the river. He had no idea how many dead and wounded he was leaving behind. At least twenty-five, probably more, he estimated from what he’d seen.

  No time to reflect on the staggering defeat he’d just received. His horse leaped off the bank into the water. He spurred it across, clambering up the far bank. He saw Lieutenant Hodgson get shot and fall off his horse into the river. A trooper came by, yelling for the lieutenant to take his stirrup. Hodgson grabbed it, and the horse carried rider and wounded across the river, but too slow, too slow, as arrows and bullets honed in on the helpless target. Hodgson’s dead hand released the stirrup as the rider made the far bank. The body rolled back into water.

  Reno fired until he realized his pistol was empty. Tears in his eyes, he turned and rode into the draw and up toward the high ground.

  Behind him, among the smoke and trees, Two Moons, the leader of the Cheyenne, found Bloody Knife’s horse. He saw a leather satchel and reached for it, pulling his hands back in surprise as they were burned by whatever was inside. He grabbed a shirt off a dead blue coat and wrapped it around the satchel, then took it with him.

  CRAZY HORSE

  His horse had been drinking in the little Big Horn when Crazy Horse heard the first shots. The horse’s ears pricked back, and it lifted its head while Crazy Horse sat motionless. Other than the distant shots, it was very quiet where he was, about a mile downstream from the northern-most edge of the village. He’ d had to go that far in that direction to find a place to easily ford the river, then be able to get up on the high bluffs to the east He’d ridden several miles, noting how empty the terrain was to the east, but also how rolling and full of gullies and ravines it was. A large force could easily sneak through that land and come up on the village unobserved, then fall down out of the high ground with a devastating attack.

  Crazy Horse had made a mental note to have sentries from his tribe placed to the east this evening. As he heard the sound of the firing to the south increase in volume, he realized that the enemy was already here and coming from the south.

  He climbed his horse out of the riverbed and then galloped to his lodge on the northern end of the village. He knew that warriors from the southern lodges would be taking the brunt of whatever fight was happening there. Crazy Horse began yelling to the warriors from his tribe and the Cheyenne who were also camped nearby to prepare themselves for combat.

  While he was doing all this, Crazy Horse could hear the sound of battle: gunfire. The screams of wounded men and horses, and the war cries of other warriors. Women and children fled by his lodge seeking shelter as far away from the ting as possible. Some were even beginning to strike their lodges to remove themselves from the area entirely. Although time was crucial, Crazy Horse didn’t even consider not completing his preparations—after all, what good did a bulletproof dream do him if he didn’t do as it told?

  Each warrior had his own way of preparing, and by the time. Crazy Horse was done, he had quite a large number of Warriors waiting to be led. With more than three hundred mounted men behind him. He raced for the southern end of the camp. It was a fearsome sight, this large group of warriors, painted and bedecked for war, their hands bristling with the instruments of killing: rifles, muskets, spears, lances, bows, war clubs, hatchets.

  But as they made their way to the other end of the camp, they were met by exulting Warriors, yellin2 about their great victory over the blue coats. Crazy Horse stopped and questioned a brave holding a bloody scalp: “What has happened?”

  “Many blue coats attacked. We killed many and the others ran away, across the river.” The warrior pointed to the southeast. “It is a great victory!”

  Crazy Horse looked in the direction the man indicated. He could see many Sioux crossing the river and climbing up to the bluffs, and puffs of smoke from rifles being fired up there.

  Then he looked at this side of the river, down the valley floor. He could see squaws moving forward to strip the bodies of the dead soldiers. Crazy Horse made a quick count of at least fifteen white bodies.

  Still, he thought. That is not right. The white man might be crazy, but not that crazy. And from that direction the soldiers were not falling into camp. Of course those soldiers were now in the high ground, and
if they attacked again they would be coming down, but from all indications those particular soldiers had been defeated.

  But there could be others, Crazy Horse knew. He could tell that his warriors were chafing to fling themselves into the battle that had moved to the other side of the river. But the village still could be attacked by other soldiers, and there appeared to be plenty of warriors already there. Crazy Horse made his decision. He signaled and his warriors reluctantly followed as he swung to the west. He planned on circling the village to make sure there weren’t more soldiers coming from another direction.

  BENTEEN

  They’d crossed Custer’s trail twenty minutes ago. Just north of Ash Creek--just in time to meet the slow-moving pack . They’d then passed the lone teepee, still burning. Although anxious, Benteen wasn’t in any particular rush. According to his orders, he was still supposed to be riding over ridges to the south. He was caught between doing what he knew was militarily right and being discovered disobeying Custer’s orders. On top of that, Bouyer and his talisman were nagging at Benteen.