Timokin, dammit! He was on the track behind the retreating Bantag!
The explosion mushroomed out, and then, long seconds later, the engine that had been fleeing them reappeared, smoke belching from its stack.
“Gunner!”
“Clearing it!”
Hans watched the locomotive approaching, shells detonating to either side.
The train was less than two hundred yards away, gathering steam, coming on.
“Driver, maybe we should move?”
“We’re hung up on the rail. Give me a minute.”
“You don’t have a minute.”
Hans looked back at the locomotive. Well, at least they were blocking the bridge. He popped open the hatch above.
“Get out now,” he shouted.
“Loading a bolt,” came the reply from below.
He waited, holding his breath. The gun kicked back with a roar. A second later there was a flash, and the steel armor-piercing bolt sliced through the locomotive’s boiler, spraying a wall of fire and burning coals back into the tender and on into the next car, which was loaded with five hundred rockets.
The fireball ignited, chain reaction sweeping into the next car, loaded with five hundred more rockets, then to the cars filled with artillery rounds, signal flares, millions of rounds of rifle ammunition, a car loaded with fifty barrels of kerosene and five barrels of benzene, and finally to the last two cars, packed with Bantag infantry.
The explosion stormed down the slope, debris tumbling, rockets spinning, artillery rounds, their fuses ignited, crashing down and bursting, rifle rounds exploding like five million firecrackers set off at once.
Hans slipped out of the turret and down into the hull, screaming for everyone to duck as the storm swept over them. It sounded as though a thousand bees, each one made of steel, were dashing themselves against the outside, joined by thumps, clangs, and explosives that sheared off interior bolt heads, which went bouncing back and forth inside the ironclad. One explosion seemed to lift the ironclad up and threatened to knock it over.
The storm passed, the torrent of noise subsiding to occasional pings, chatters, dull bangs, and then one more sharp explosion. Cautiously, Hans crawled up to the shield that the gunner had fortunately slammed down in front of his barrel. Lifting the one-inch iron plate, Hans looked out, then back at the gunner.
“Prettiest shot I ever saw,” Hans exclaimed, and the gunner grinned like a boy who had personally set off the town’s Fourth of July display prematurely as a prank.
Hans stood up and saw Jong, curled up in front of the boiler.
“Poor beggar,” the engineer announced, patting Jong, who was rocking back and forth and keening softly.
Hans unlatched the side door and leaned on it. It gave back slowly, the engineer adding his weight so that it finally creaked open. Hans stepped out. A driveshaft still attached to a locomotive wheel leaned against the side of his machine.
The ironclad was half buried under the burning debris, and Hans shouted for the engineer to try to back up.
Stepping away, Hans climbed over a smoldering boxcar door. There were still explosions out in the fields. A shell behind him sprayed him with mud, but he ignored the danger.
The sight was beyond his imagining, a joy to behold. Where the train had stood less than a minute before there were now only blackened ruins. The snow to either side in a vast circle a hundred yards across had instantly been transformed to water and mud. The column of smoke from the explosion was still climbing, spreading out, fragments of debris pattering down.
There was another sound now, and it caused his heart to swell, the joyful cry of thousands who had lived long enough to see their tormentors vanquished. Looking back across the river, he could see the Chin surging down to the riverbank, oblivious to the danger, cheering, waving. A chant rose up, and he struggled to blink back the tears.
“Yankee … Yankee … Yankee …”
An ironclad was coming down the ridge, skirting the inferno. The turret popped open, and Timokin stood up, waving triumphantly. The chanting roared to a crescendo, and Hans looked back, realizing that he was an actor upon the stage and for that brief instant the boyish dreams of glory had again become real. Unable to contain himself, he waved, and then bowed.
“By Perm, Kesus, and Saint Malady!” Timokin roared, climbing out of the turret as his steaming ironclad skidded to a halt. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
Hans grinned. “Honestly, son … no.”
“Thought they were getting away. We got the train in sight as we crossed the tracks and he was backing up with two more trains in front of him. Well, they slammed on their brakes and went ahead again. The bastards poured on the steam and raced ahead of us. We chased them but figured they were gone. Well, we come moving up here and then suddenly they’re coming backward, straight at us.”
Timokin was talking so excitedly that he had to pause for breath.
“Bagged the first one myself. The two stop, start going forward, and then boom … boom!” As he spoke he waved his arms over his head.
“Ammunition trains,” Hans replied, finally getting himself back under control.
His own ironclad, having extracted itself from the track and the burning rubble, backed around, coming up beside Timokin’s machine. Both crews were out, slapping each other on the back, talking excitedly, and Hans let them go for the moment. Even Jong was out, gazing in wonder at the wreckage and then back at his liberators. Hans looked back at Timokin.
“How many machines left?”
“Six. Four more broke down, lost one at an artillery position while we were chasing the train. I’m sorry, our blood was up and we were coming on hard, didn’t want to stop.”
“It happens, son.”
Timokin looked past Hans to the bridge.
“It’ll be a bastard to burn that. Green lumber. We could soak it with a hundred gallons of kerosene and it will still wink out.”
“There must be tools. We get the Chin working on it, chop it down if need be.”
Timokin shaded his eyes and looked to the west.
“If you want to get out by dark, we’d better start moving, Hans.”
“We’re not getting out at dark.”
“What?”
Hans motioned toward the still-cheering prisoners. “What about them?”
Timokin lowered his head. “Didn’t think of that.”
“Honestly, neither did I till I saw them. It’s twenty- five miles back to the pass. You should see those people. We try to march them at night, they’ll all be dead in the snow by morning.”
“Hans, they might be dead anyhow when the Bantag finally pull themselves together and close in on us.”
Hans shook his head.
“Not right away. I see this. We broke their line, destroyed enough ammunition for a week’s worth of fighting. We’ll tear up fifteen miles of track or more and destroy the bridges. But they need their slaves, Timokin. There must be six, maybe eight to ten thousand of them back there. We take away the slaves, how are they going to rebuild all this? It’ll cut his line for days, maybe weeks. We save these people, and by doing that we kill Ha’ark’s army.”
“They’ll be on us maybe tonight.”
“We’ll see. I’m going back over. We’ve got to get some organization. First off, let’s give them a feed.”
“Of what?” Timokin asked nervously.
“See all those horses?” And he pointed at the hundreds of riderless mounts spreading out into the open fields. “Get my mounted infantry to round them up. Get some food in the Chin, smash up everything we can here, then start moving them out. I’ll send a courier back up to our infantry in the pass to come down to meet us.”
“Infantry unsupported in the open?”
“See any alternative?”
The cheering washed over them again, and Hans looked at Timokin, who finally smiled.
“Guess this is what we’re fighting for.”
“You’re damn straigh
t it is.”
Ha’ark stood silent, watching the city of Roum in flames. Memories of the past stirred, the burning cities of the old world, the flash glow in the night sky of an atomic blast burning yet another million in a single flash, their cities, his cities, all of it merging into one unrelenting slaughter.
But this is different, he thought. Another race bent upon our destruction, and I am the Redeemer sent to destroy them.
At his order the guns had fallen silent. Ammunition was all but depleted, but it could be replenished tomorrow and the assault continued.
He looked down at the messenger holding the white flag.
“Be sure to wave it over your head, and let them see you clearly. Deliver the message and wait for the reply.”
“Yes, my Qar Qarth.”
The messenger disappeared into the dark, and Ha’ark grinned. It would make them pause, it would play upon their weaknesses.
“My Qarth.”
It was Jurak, and from his manner Ha’ark sensed something was wrong.
“What is it?”
“There’s a problem.”
“Go on.”
“You know the telegraph line is down near the bridge over the Ebro.”
“Yes.”
“Our flyer just reported. They spotted two columns of ironclads moving to either side of the bridge. The position was stormed.”
“Damn.”
“Ha’ark, the flyer reported three trains blew up. From the sound of it, they were ammunition trains.”
“By all the Ancestors,” Ha’ark roared. Kicking the slushy ground, he turned away, aware that his assembled staff of umen commanders were watching him.
“They were told to wait till our own ironclads had cleared the way.”
“Somehow the order was mistaken. They’re gone, Ha’ark.”
“Move another umen up. I want that line repaired no later than tomorrow.”
“Move them with what? There were only two trains on this side of the break, the one now moving the armor, the second departing with rocket crews and the remaining armor. There’s no way to signal those on the other side of the break to coordinate.”
Ha’ark lowered his head. Three trainloads of ammunition. His army needed more than five million small-arms rounds a day to sustain the siege, and ten thousand artillery and mortar rounds. In the one moon since this battle had started he had consumed nearly a full year’s worth of production, a rate he had never anticipated, and it had stretched his supply system to the limit. And now because of a damn raid everything was in jeopardy.
“Signal as far as you can up the line. Strip every mounted unit and send them in. I want this break contained, those who did it annihilated, and supplies moved up within three days.”
Jurak looked at him. “What about here?”
“They’ll break tomorrow if they do not surrender tonight, I’m certain of that. We open with a bombardment at dawn and push the assault. They will break tomorrow. But as for those who raided us, they are to be annihilated, and make sure it is done right!”
“Here are the terms,” Pat announced, looking down at the note from Ha’ark written in clumsy Cyrillic script. “Cease-fire. All Rus troops to abandon the city within two days and be granted free passage out by sea. Roum to surrender to the Horde.”
Pat looked around at his staff, his corps officers, and Marcus, who stood in the corner of the room with arms folded.
“Tell him to go to hell,” Schneid barked, rising from his stretcher, obviously in agony with his broken ribs. “Damn all to hell, I’ll take a gun and go up on the line myself.”
“Very commendable, Rick,” Marcus said, “but I don’t think it will make a difference.”
Schneid glared at him, and Marcus extended his hand in a consoling gesture. “You’re a good soldier, Rick, but you’re used up. All of us are used up.”
“I’m not,” growled General Matthews, commander of the 6th Corps, and the other Rus corps commanders nodded their agreement, even Barker, whose 4th Corps had all but been destroyed in the breakthrough.
Pat looked over at the commanders of the 9th, 11th, and 12th Corps, the Roum units. One of them was of the old 35th Maine, the other two Roum patricians. Bamberg, commander of the ill-fated 9th, nodded in agreement with Matthews, but the patricians were silent, their gazes fixed on Marcus.
There was a long awkward silence, and Pat thought of the dispatch in his breast pocket handed to him by Bullfinch, who sat in the corner of the room, saying nothing. The letter was from Kal, stating that if Roum made a move to a separate peace, it was Pat’s responsibility to get the Rus units out of the city as quickly as possible. If he dared to make that news public, Marcus would see it as proof of double dealing on the part of Rus and most certainly go for a separate peace.
“The rest of the note?” Marcus said. “I think there was more in it.”
“Nothing important.”
“Read it,” Marcus snapped.
Pat took a deep breath. “It states that the president of Rus is considering terms as well. If Rus agrees to a cease-fire and Roum does not do so, Roum will be annihilated.”
“There,” Marcus replied, as if this were indeed proof.
“It’s a damned lie,” Pat snapped. “This army fights to the end. Rus will never surrender.”
“I wonder.”
“Marcus, he is playing us against each other. If he splits us apart, we will all die. He must be desperate to try this. We’ve got to hang on just a little longer. The temperature today, it got above freezing for the first time in weeks. It could be the start of an early thaw.”
“I’ve been hearing that for months, Pat—another day, another week, and things will turn around. Well, here we are, half my city destroyed, the Bantag encamped on the Tiber six hundred paces from this very building. You must see it from my side. If we continue to fight, we will lose anyhow, and every one of my people will be put to the sword.”
He lowered his head. “Pat, harsh words were said between us this morning. I am willing to ascribe them to the heat of battle.”
Pat nodded. “Thank you, and I apologize.”
It was hard for him to choke the words out. Marcus was dead wrong, but he had to play every chance he could.
“This dream of the Republic, it was glorious while it lasted, but we are all dying because of it. I think if we surrender now, some of us will survive, then perhaps ten, twenty years from now we will gather our strength and win.”
“They’re dead,” Marcus whispered. “That cannot be changed. I’m not willing to put more into the grave beside them to honor their restless spirits.”
“You will put all of us into the grave, or more likely the feasting pits of the Hordes. Once they’ve split us, once they have occupied and disarmed us, they will most surely turn on us and kill us all. Do you honestly think they will leave anyone alive who can remember how to accomplish what we did? They rule this world through terror, a terror so complete that all submitted, never realizing their own strength if only they would unite and fight back. Marcus, what you are contemplating is a death sentence for this entire planet. Once they have killed all of us, they will have to murder every last Chin, because the Chin know of us. Then after the Chin the Nippon, and whatever nations of people exist beyond them, and so on all the way about this world.”
“Marcus, you said one more day,” Pat quickly interjected. “You promised that this morning. For the love of God, give us one more day. Maybe Hans has broken through.”
“That was a madman’s scheme.”
“Give it one more day.”
Marcus lowered his head, then finally nodded. “One more day and that is it.”
The meeting broke up, the commanders heading back to their units. Pat followed Emil out of the room and down the corridor to the doctor’s room and closed the door behind them.
“He’ll break tomorrow,” Emil said. “I can see it. Marcus is a good man at heart. Remember, he joined us when it was to his advantage to stay out of th
e war we all knew was coming with the Merki. He just can’t stand the strain of seeing his beloved city smashed to pieces. To him Roum is this city, and he wants something of it to survive.”
“They’ll all die.”
“We might all die anyhow, from the looks of things. Do you honestly think you can hold them back tomorrow? I understand Ha’ark’s shifting more troops to the west side north of the city.”
Pat nodded. “Five umens. They’ll attack at dawn, that’s for certain. We’ll pile ’em up, but I don’t have any reserves left. The regiments holding the outer perimeter are from the 1st and 6th—I hate to say it, but I don’t trust holding it with Roum units anymore. We’ll lose the outer wall, we just don’t have the strength, and then he’ll throw everything he has in from the eastern side, try and take the bridges. And remember, the river above the harbor is frozen solid. They’ll come right across in waves.”
“Can’t you smash the ice up?”
“Trying, now that it’s dark, but they’ll still get over it.”
“So what do you propose to do, Pat?”
“Die fighting. Always figured that would be how I’d go. It’s what Andrew would have expected.”
At the mention of the ghostly presence in the room below them, Emil shifted uncomfortably.
“Any change?”
“No. He hasn’t stepped foot out of the room all day.”
“Kathleen?”
“She’s down in the main hospital now helping with the wounded.”
“It must be killing her doing that to him.”
Emil sighed. “Poor lass. Maybe more courage than all of us together. I wouldn’t have the heart to do to him what she has. I’d’ve held him and told him it would be all right. Damn, he’s like a son to me he is,” and as he spoke the words he struggled to hold the tears back. “Always feared I’d see this happen to him. Could see him getting used up, digging deeper and deeper into his strength, but it was like a body with cancer—it finally starts devouring the very thing that keeps it alive until there is collapse and death.”
A Band of Brothers Page 26
