Time Commander (The First Admiral Series)

by Benning, William J.

  Except that this day was different. This was the day of the Time Warrior Ritual. It was this day that his future was likely to be decided. Almost every Ganthoran citizen would be watching the Vide-Broadcast monitors to follow the fortune of the flame-haired alien from Earth, and his attempt to claim the Crystal Throne. Even some of the lower ranking prisoners in the Facility would have access to the Vide-Broadcast.

  Many of them would be hoping that a new Emperor, if the alien was successful, would grant them all amnesty as a part of the Coronation celebrations. This had been a tradition for all but the most dangerous and serious offenders in the Empire. However, Jarrelm Grobbeg would be at the especial mercy of the human who had defeated and shattered his Fourth Frontier Fleet.

  Jarrelm Grobbeg was quietly confident that Billy Caudwell could and would succeed in whatever challenge the Adjudicators had set him. Having been on the receiving end of the tactical brilliance of the young Alliance First Admiral, Grobbeg knew that there would be very few enemies who would last very long in opposition to Billy Caudwell. The Time Warrior Ritual would have begun by now, and here he was; the person who most needed to know the outcome more than anyone else in that facility, had no access to the Vide-Broadcast. It was both frustrating and annoying for Grobbeg. He wanted to know, no, he needed to know if he was likely to have any chance of survival. Grobbeg knew that if Caudwell failed, the prison guards would simply walk into his cell and shoot him down like an animal. There would be no fanfare, no spectacle, no ceremony and no ritual for his death. It would simply be a plain, simple shooting in a squalid, little cell in the middle of the Ganthus City military prison.

  That was not how Jarrelm Grobbeg wanted to die. If he was not going to die of old age, Jarrelm Grobbeg had wanted to die leading his Frontier Fleet to victory over impossible odds. There would be memorials to him, with statues raised in his honour in the far flung corners of the Empire. Children would be taught lessons of the heroic Frontier General, carefully avoiding the murder, extortion, and unpleasantness that had led him to the exalted position of Frontier General in the first place. He would go down in the annals of Ganthoran history as a conqueror and hero, or so he had hoped.

  If Caudwell lost, then he would be shot and his body dumped in a hole somewhere, an anonymous and unmarked grave, out on the Lightning Fields. He wouldn’t be a conqueror and a hero, he would simply be another opportunist Frontier General who had gambled and lost. Within hours of his death, another opportunist General would be appointed to command his Frontier Fleet, and Jarrelm Grobbeg would be all but forgotten within a few years. Still shuffling angrily back and forth across his cell, Grobbeg decided that he would lie down on the bed, and try to think of other things. No sooner had he lain himself down, than his entire world disappeared in a bright, blinding white flash.

  With a yell of terror, Jarrelm Grobbeg found himself off-balance and falling heavily onto the floor. With his eyes recovering from the flash, Grobbeg realised that he was no longer in his Containment Cell. He was in a dark place, a place he felt that he recognised. Then, it suddenly dawned upon him: this was a Landing Bay aboard a Universal Alliance Star Cruiser. Around him, he could see the wedge-shaped Alliance Eagles standing silently in the darkness. Re-orientating himself quickly, Grobbeg clambered onto his knees, and was about to rise to his feet, when he heard a familiar voice. Looking up, Grobbeg saw, in the shadows, the green Alliance uniform and the olive-skinned, insincerely smiling face of Karap Sownus.

  “Good afternoon, General Grobbeg,” Sownus said, “Welcome aboard.”

  Chapter 34: The Time Warrior Ritual, Chronos

  “Almost three o’clock.” Billy Caudwell closed the casing of the large pocket watch the Ganthorans had issued.

  It had been over two hours since the first Zulu attack had been beaten off, and Billy Caudwell was feeling very twitchy. Most of the soldiers were resting; leaning or sitting against the barricade, trying to find whatever shade they could from the afternoon sun. Water had already been issued, as had a ration of hard biscuits and salt beef, the latter of which Billy felt he could re-sole his boots with. It was a poor meal for any human being, but the soldiers had wolfed it down with relish as if it had been from the very best restaurants that London could offer. Not that Billy could blame them, since they were hungry and frightened. So, any form of sustenance was a blessing to them

  Now, there seemed to be an uneasy, almost eerie silence hanging over the battlefield. The smoke from the Zulu attack had been blown away, leaving Billy with an uninterrupted view of the charnel house he had created on this clear, bright afternoon. The first of the vultures and hyenas were starting to forage amongst the dead. A light breeze had blown steadily from the east to give some relief from the heat, but it was still too warm for Billy Caudwell’s liking.

  “As you were, lads, get some rest.” Billy raised his hand as he approached the barricade, seeing a group of redcoats attempting to stand up to acknowledge his officer status.

  “Anything out there, sentry?” Billy asked.

  “Not a thing, sir.” The young sentry had a broad, Scottish accent. “Will they come back again, sir?”

  Looking down at the seated soldiers around the sentry; who all looked up anxiously, Billy knew that he had to tell them the truth.

  “Oh, aye, they’ll be back...we haven’t finished killing them all yet, Laddie.” Billy let his own accent flower, drawing a nervous smile from the anxious soldiers.

  Turning away from the north wall, Billy walked briskly to the south. Passing the Quartermasters’ wagons, he soon found himself amongst the Natal Native Infantry. Many had buried the butts of their shields into the ground and were using them as shade from the sun. Small groups were still celebrating the victory with songs and tribal dances. To shatter a Zulu Impi was a big deal for these men, and they did intend to celebrate. At the south wall, Major Pulleine was scanning down towards the river with his field glasses.

  “Anything, Major?” Billy asked.

  “Not a thing, sir,” the Major said, “they’re too quiet. No scouts, no raiding parties...nothing. It’s like they’ve just disappeared, but my instinct tells me that they’re still here.”

  “More than likely, Major, they’re probably watching us, even as we speak.” Billy calmly sweeped his own field glasses over the southern approaches. “I think we’ll have our guns stationed down here, at the ends of the southern wall.”

  “Is that wise, sir?” Pulleine questioned.

  “Maybe not, Major, but they’ve attacked the north, and got a bloodied nose for their trouble,” Billy speculated, “they won’t be back that way any time soon. The dongas would be a nightmare to launch an attack from, so the only alternative is from the south.”

  “Perhaps we should try and find somewhere shallow to cross the river or the dongas and attack from there, sir?” Pulleine asked.

  “You must’ve read my mind, Major,” Billy smiled.

  “And, while you’re about it, Major, ship the riflemen to the south, east and west walls as well. If the Zulus do surprise us from the south, they’ll try to envelop the entire position. Leave a hundred men and some Natal Infantry on the north wall and deploy the rest to the other walls,” Billy said.

  “Acknowledged, Sir,” Pulleine said.

  “Oh, and Major...deploy one Spear Company to each wall, and keep the other two in reserve.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The men were confident and in high spirits, although some were still shocked by the courage and fortitude that the Zulus had shown in the attack. It still bothered Billy that so many Zulus had pressed the attack and been cut down. The natural survival instinct should have cut in long before the Zulus had reached his glass and nails trap. It was something that irritated Billy.

  “Sir, where do you want the Spear Men?” A voice broke into Billy’s thoughts.

  Shaking himself back to the reality of the situation, Billy was aware that red-coated riflemen were taking up positions near the barricade all around him. To his le
ft and right, gunners and Natal Infantrymen were lumbering along, and shoving the two cannon down towards the southern corners of the barricade.

  “Stand them behind the riflemen, sergeant, give them room to work, but if the Zulus get to the wall, take them in to support the bayonets,” Billy said.

  “Sir.”

  “And, Sergeant, take some of your lads and bring the water supply wagon down here,” Billy ordered.

  If the Zulus were going to attack from the south, then he would need his command post on hand to get a better view of the battle.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Billy was about to turn to the eastern wall, when from in front of him and to his left he heard the distinctive clarion call of the Zulu warrior.

  “OO-SOO-TOO-OO-OO!” The warrior called the chant in a tenor voice as clear as a mountain stream, holding the final phrase.

  The call seemed to echo around the entire valley; such was the clarity and pureness of the voice. Billy Caudwell knew that the disarming war cry meant trouble for him and his men.

  “STAND TO!!” Billy yelled at the top of his voice.

  Within moments, the bugle was once again challenging the air with the strident alarm call to summon the men to their battle stations. The riflemen scrambled to their posts as a great Zulu cheer rang out that echoed and rang around the valley. The cheer was followed by a low rumbling sound that seemed to roll like thunder across the heavens, engulfing what now felt like a pathetically small British position.

  “My God, they’re all around us, sir.” Major Pulleine took station next to the Commanding Officer of the position.

  “Not quite, Major. Get those guns to the wall!” Billy watched as the artillery crews manhandled the seven-pounder cannon from the north to the south wall. “And, watch for them on the flanks!”

  “Are they in those dongas, sir?” Pulleine asked as if it was somehow impossible for the enemy to be within the six or seven hundred yards it was to the edges of the dried up streams.

  “Yes, Major, they sneaked down there and outflanked us,” Billy said.

  “Surely, we could have stopped them?”

  “No, Major, there’s nothing we could have done.” A tinge of regret was in his voice.

  It was just one of those things that a battlefield commander had to accept. The Zulus had used the cover of the deep dongas to slip thousands of warriors down past the British position. The Zulu commander was good. He had an eye for ground, and how to use it to his advantage. Raising his field glasses, Billy saw the first of the attacking Zulus seemed to rise up from the ground seven hundred yards to the south and east.

  “Looks like they found the shallow bank to the donga, Major,” Billy said.

  “They’re still quite a distance away, sir.”

  “Yes, they are.” Billy distantly watched a powerful, muscular warrior, equipped with a black shield, loping in an easy, comfortable stride towards the British position. “Keep watching those flanks!”

  There was something not quite right about this, Billy’s instincts, or actually the instincts of Teg Skarral Portan told him. In the attack on the north wall, the Zulu army had been shot to pieces between six hundred and one hundred yards. They were still too far out for them to have any hope of success in a frontal assault, but they did seem to be adopting their “Horns of the Buffalo” tactic again. Billy could already see warriors rising up from the donga and streaming to the right and left to form the “Horn” or pincers formation.

  There has to be something else, Billy considered, and swept his field glasses to the right. And, sure enough, Zulus were emerging from the shallow edges of the donga to the west.

  “Shall I open fire?” Pulleine asked.

  “No, wait until they’re within six hundred yards like before, and tell Major Smith to save his powder until they’re within case shot range,” Billy ordered.

  Something definitely isn’t right about this, his instincts were screaming at him.

  One frontal attack shot to ruins, followed up by another one from the opposite direction just did not make any sense. What was this clever and cunning Zulu up to?

  “Sir,” a voice came from behind him.

  Turning around, Billy could see that the water supply wagon had been brought down to the south wall by the red-coated sergeant, and a group of Natal Infantry.

  “Good work, Sergeant, now get your lads to their stations,” Billy said.

  Clambering onto the water supply wagon, Billy was able to scan the Zulu positions with his field glasses. As he had expected, he saw twelve thousand Zulus swarming up from the dongas on both the left and the right.

  They’ve marched their men all the way past us on both flanks, Billy calculated, and had to admire the skill and courage of the Zulu commander for doing so.

  “FIRE!” yelled Major Pulleine. The entire south wall of the barricade was wreathed in smoke after the blast of two hundred rifles.

  Looking at the first rank of advancing Zulus, it appeared as if dozens of them simply fell over an invisible obstacle. Some went down and stayed down, whilst others were trying to crawl forward as other Zulus leapt over, or ran over and around their fallen comrades.

  “FIRE!” The sound of the blazing rifles echoed from the ridge and the mountain.

  Once again, dozens of Zulus fell, but this time, Billy saw several figures rise up again from the ground. Noticing the rising figures Billy watched them intently.

  “Present!” Pulleine yelled.

  “Aim!”

  And then, Billy saw something that shocked him. Several Zulus, in his field of vision, threw themselves face first onto the ground.

  “FIRE!” Another volley slashed downrange behind the great billow of gun-smoke to claim the lives of more warriors.

  The warriors, who had thrown themselves flat, then got up and started to dash forward again.

  “Major Pulleine!” Billy called, “You should come and see this!”

  “Sir! Captain Mostyn, take over!”

  “Watch their front line when Mostyn fires.”

  Setting his heavy field glasses to his eyes, Pulleine waited for Captain Mostyn to chant the litany of the firing drill.

  “FIRE!” As Mostyn yelled the order, the British line vanished for a few moments behind the curtain of gun-smoke.

  “Well, I’ll be…” Pulleine gasped in astonishment.

  “Yes, they’ve worked out the intervals between out volleys,” Billy said.

  “The cunning devils...what do you suggest we do, sir?”

  “Break up the rhythm, Major,” Billy began, “split the riflemen into two groups: the good shots; independent firers... just let them blaze away. The not so good; volley-firers...break the volley-firers into three groups. Number them off one to three...Ones fire a volley, then two seconds later, let loose with the twos and threes. With the echo in this place, it’ll take the Zulus a while to work out, which is the smaller of the two volleys...”

  “A bit complicated, sir?” Pulleine asked.

  “Not really, Major. Independent firers in the first rank, volley firers, second rank,” Billy instructed.

  “It’s very unorthodox, sir.”

  “Yes, but it’s a lot better than blazing away, hitting nothing and wasting our ammunition.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Cease Firing!” Pulleine called to the astonished riflemen.

  Meanwhile, Billy went back to worrying about where the remaining, unaccounted-for Zulus were hiding, as the sharpshooters in the position began to open up a constant, yet ragged fire towards the Zulus.

  Where in heaven’s name were those other seven or eight thousand Zulus? Billy asked himself.

  Once again, Billy asked himself what he would do in the situation. Once more, his eyes were drawn to the two deep dongas on the flank of the position.

  If I was the Zulu commander, and had warriors in those dongas, Billy speculated, I would set up a diversion to draw their attention and then attack from the flanks.

  But, no, Bi
lly corrected himself, they still have six or seven hundred yards to run to get the barricade; they’d be shot to pieces. The alternative would be to try to storm the barricade with the frontal assault, and, when they reached the hand-to-hand, bring the warriors out of the dongas to support the hand-to-hand without them having been shot to pieces by the volleys and cannon.

  “That’s it,” Billy said, “that has to be it.”

  Sweeping the field glasses over the two dongas once again, Billy saw no heads or any signs of movement, but something told him that the lost Zulus had to be there.

  They had managed to slip twelve or so thousand warriors down to a stepping off point. There was no reason why the others couldn’t be spread out along the dongas; lying in wait.

  On the north wall, nothing was moving. The sentries were still at their posts, and appeared to be undisturbed by any potential threats from the area of the first attack.

  “Number ones! FIRE!” Major Pulleine ordered.

  There followed a volley from one third of the riflemen in the rear rank of the south wall that managed to overwhelm the ragged firing of the soldiers carrying out the independent fire.

  “Twos and threes! FIRE !”

  A larger and sharper volley blasted out through the lingering smoke of the first volley.

  Out on the battlefield, Billy was delighted to see dozens of Zulus rising to their feet and then bowled over like ten-pins as the second volley struck home. Looking through his field glasses, Billy could see that the Zulus approaching from the east had just passed the three hundred yard markers, when suddenly from below the edges of the donga itself, more warriors began to emerge.

  “I knew it...I knew it!” Billy focussed on the figures that were beginning to struggle over the steep-sided stream beds. “East wall, independent fire! Knock down those Zulus!”

  His instinct had proven correct, and now the remaining Zulu warriors were being committed to the battle. They had been hiding out in the donga after all.

  As the riflemen on the east wall started to open up a ragged but brisk fire, Billy could see Zulus emerging from the donga all the way up to beyond the British north wall.