Fateful Lightning

by William R. Forstchen

  The chanting was sounding louder, coming forward, a horn sounding, other horns picking up the brazen cry.

  He found himself breathing hard. It sounded like an ocean rolling in, a wave of insanity, screaming, advancing at the run, the thunder of their approach filling the world.

  The smoke curled, shadows within moving.

  “Get ready!”

  To his left he heard a roaring explosion, Vincent’s divisions opening with a crackling volley. He pulled himself up out of the trench through a narrow sally port, his staff shouting at him angrily.

  “Ah, shut the hell up,” he roared, and raising his glasses, he looked to the south.

  Coming up out of the riverbed and onto the flood plain of the valley was a solid wall of Merki, casualties going down by the hundreds from the artillery and rifle fire to the left, a thick curtain of smoke rising up from Vincent’s trenches.

  “That’s it, Hawthorne!” Pat screamed. “Feed it to ’em, God damn their souls, feed it to ’em!”

  “General O’Donald, for Perm’s sake get down!”

  Pat turned and looked back to the west.

  Less than a hundred yards away, masses of Merki were advancing out of the smoke, at the run, screaming their battle chants, standards held high, red flags down, pointed forward.

  Pat raised his arm up high.

  “Take aim!”

  He heard the chilling yet reassuring sound of thousands of musket locks clicking back.

  “Fire!” and he dropped his arm.

  The volley slashed out, and it appeared as if the entire front rank of the Merki charge simply collapsed, artillery, loaded with solid shot and a load of canister on top, kicked off, the deep-throated bellow of the Napoleons counterpointed by the high cracking whine of the light four-pounders.

  The charge continued in. From out of the cloud of smoke a darker wall rose up, the unleashing of over twenty thousand bows, fired by the two umens supporting the assault of the two umens going straight in.

  Pat leaped back down into the trench, pressing himself up against the wall.

  “Volley coming in!” he screamed.

  A hail of arrows slammed down onto the overhead roof of earth-covered boards, the iron-tipped hail rattling with a near explosive roar, shafts suddenly raining down to the front and rear. Other arrows started to come in low on a flatter trajectory. A rifleman wordlessly tumbled back from the firing step, the tip of an arrow driven out the back of his skull.

  A steady staccato roar of gunfire raced up and down the line. Pat looked up forward. Merki continued to drop, sprays of canister wiping out whole sections at a time. Yet still they continued in, tumbling into pitfalls, tripping and falling on top of sharpened stakes, tumbling and writhing in agony. A steady, near-hysterical screaming thundered up from both sides, the deep-throated booming roar of the Merki, the higher-pitched screams of the men, the pent-up fury and rage of both sides released in a maniacal frenzy of killing.

  Yet as fast as they dropped them, more sprang up to take the place of the fallen, archers moving in, crouching low, firing with deadly skill, arrows slicing in through firing ports.

  The covered trench was filled with a choking cloud of smoke, the view forward obscured, men firing at shadows. Pat started to walk up and down the line.

  “Feed it to them, God damn their souls, feed it to them!”

  He paused, climbing up to where a battery was deployed above the trench, protected by high earthen walls and a roof of planking. The gunners were taking casualties, bolts slamming through the wide firing ports. He pushed a gun sergeant aside and peered down the barrel. Cursing, he grabbed hold of the screw handle under the breech and cranked it up higher so that it seemed as if the shot would almost strike the ground directly in front. The loader finished, the crew ran the gun back up, and Pat sighted once more.

  “Stand clear!”

  He jerked the lanyard back, the Napoleon leaping, the smoke in front swirling from the load of canister screaming downrange, striking into the Merki line at knee height.

  “Keep it up!”

  He climbed back down into the main trench and started back to his command bunker, stepping over the bodies of the fallen, moving aside as two stretcher-bearers carried a soldier to the aid station, the old man choking on his own blood, the broken end of an arrow sticking out of his mouth.

  “Pressure’s building with Morrison’s brigade,” an aide shouted, looking up from the telegraph station. “Merki into the trenches.”

  Pat nodded, listening as the key continued to chatter.

  “Requests support of the reserve division.”

  “Not yet, not yet,” Pat growled. “The goddam day’s only started.”

  Cursing angrily, Jack paced up and down in front of China Sea’s hangar.

  “Get the damn engine going, get it going. Goddammit, you never should have come back in. Republic’s the only one up there.”

  The pilot looked up at him, just as angry.

  “The piston’s cracked! It’s got to be replaced!”

  Jack knew the man was right—the ship had barely limped in, minutes behind his own—but not now, why did it have to be now?

  The warning bugle continued to blow, and Jack looked back at the watchtower. In the distance he could hear the staccato of musketry from the fight on the other side of the river. But there was a closer sound, four-pound artillery, close by.

  “They’ve stopped over the powder mill. Republic’s got one of them. The powder mill guns are firing.”

  The watcher started to jump up and down excitedly.

  “They’ve got one, right over the mill, it’s going in!”

  Jack started to run back to Yankee Clipper. Atop the bag he could see his own crew chief.

  “How is it?”

  “Broken spar. Some bastard didn’t retie it right— it’s ripped a hole through bigger than my Aunt Mari’s ass. All the hydrogen’s gone.”

  “Get the hell down. We’re going back up.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Get the hell down, or they’ll burn us on the ground.”

  A dull whoosh cut through the air, and he started to turn. From the corner of his eye he saw a tremendous fireball rising up from out of the forest, and a split second later a thunderclap explosion snapped over him, the blow staggering him. The sound of shattering glass washed over the field, the fireball continuing to climb.

  He steadied himself and looked back.

  “Merciful Perm, it’s the powder mill,” Feyodor shouted, running up to Jack’s side.

  “We’ve got to get her up,” Jack shouted, and turned to run to his ship.

  He reached the basket, and Feyodor started to climb in.

  “Just set the engine on full. I can work the throttle from up front.”

  “Like hell.”

  “It’s leaked too much gas—it’ll never get off the ground with both of us! Now do it!”

  Feyodor hesitated, and Jack forced a weak grin.

  “You said you were sick of flying with me.”

  Feyodor stepped out of the cab and took Jack’s hand.

  “I never meant it.”

  “Liar.”

  Jack climbed into the cab, and reaching over into Feyodor’s side, he grabbed the engage for the propeller and pulled it forward. He looked to his port side and saw the crew chief sliding down from a support rope and landing heavily.

  “Get the hell out,” the chief screamed, running up alongside Jack even as he started to taxi Yankee Clipper II out onto the field. “You’ve got no lift—the gas in the forward bag’s gone!”

  “Out of my way!”

  Throttle full open, he pushed the rudder stick forward, the airship bouncing along the ground. There was no need for a ground crew to restrain the ship. He floated up slowly, gaining only a couple of feet. The woods on the east side of the field were straight ahead, coming up fast.

  He reached back into Feyodor’s cab and disengaged the propeller, pushing the rudder hard to the left. The
ship turned ponderously, its nose barely missing the edge of the forest. And as the ship turned around, he looked back to the west and saw them.

  To either side of the fireball that had once been the powder mill, two Merki ships were bearing in, the first already over the far side of the field, barely above the trees, coming on fast.

  “No, God damn you!”

  He grabbed hold of the propeller engage and slammed it, the blades humming up to a blur. With elevator stick full in his stomach he started forward, the nose ever so slowly lifting up as he gained speed.

  The Merki ship continued straight on, passing over China Sea. He saw the harpoon go down and hit. There was a moment as if nothing had happened, and then the blue flame started to race across the top of the ship, blowing into the tail end, which was still inside the hangar.

  China Sea disappeared in a fireball explosion, the victorious Merki ship now turning slightly to come straight on.

  Ground crew, armed with crossbows, the flaming tips of the bolts wrapped with kerosene-soaked cotton, ran across the field, aiming up at the enemy ship, firing, the bolts disappearing into the vessel. Jack didn’t even see them, he was looking up, the nose of Yankee Clipper rising slowly, the cab barely hovering above the ground but slowly gaining height.

  The shadow of the enemy ship was racing straight at him, his own vessel now blocking the view. He felt something hit. The shadow of the enemy ship was past, and for a brief second he thought he was going to make it. He looked to one side and saw ground crew, running—away from him, and the ship started to sag down, twisting on its long axis at the same time.

  He vaulted up to the side of the basket and leaped out, hitting the ground hard, feeling something in his ankle give way with a crack. He went down and then came back up, feeling the heat of the fireball on his neck. Men to either side were running, but one came straight at him, Feyodor, grabbing him around the waist and bodily picking him off the ground, running hard. The fireball washed out around them, and Feyodor went down, covering Jack with his own body. The scorching flame shot over their heads, not touching the ground, the burning hydrogen racing up into the sky.

  Feyodor came back up, grabbed Jack by the collar of his flight overalls, and ran a bit farther before collapsing down to the ground by his side, panting.

  “Second time you’ve done that,” Jack gasped.

  “If I didn’t save your ass I’d have to fly with some other damn fool with even worse luck.”

  Jack turned to looked back at Yankee Clipper II as it collapsed in upon itself, flame soaring to the heavens. Another shadow raced pass, the ship climbing steeply, no targets left on the ground for it to kill.

  “They got the bastard,” someone shouted, and Jack looked up to see the Merki ship that had hit him buckling up over the forest a half mile to the north, flame gushing out of both ends of the ruptured bag. The Merki ship, which had no internal support, collapsed in upon itself, sections of the paper-and-silk bag spiraling up, the basket underneath and what was left of the ship going down in flames.

  All around him was chaos, two ships burning in the field, the powder mill a mile away burning fiercely.

  Feyodor helped Jack up, supporting him as he walked on his good leg, and they hobbled across the field back to the headquarters building. High overhead another engine sounded, and he looked up to see Republic swinging out in pursuit of the Merki ship.

  “One ship left,” Jack said, his voice weak.

  Feyodor said nothing, helping him along, their crew chief coming up to lend a hand.

  They cut a wide circle around the flaming ruins of China Sea, half a dozen men lying still around it, blankets already covering their burned and broken bodies. They reached the headquarters, which was filled with wounded.

  “Put me outside,” Jack gasped as he looked in at an unrecognizable man writhing on the table, his skin black, the smell of charred flesh thick in the air.

  Feyodor got a blanket and laid it out against the far side of the cabin, and together with the crew chief he helped Jack to lie down.

  Smoke drifted through the woods, coming up from the burning mill. Ghostlike, from out of the smoke, Chuck Ferguson appeared, walking numbly. He stopped and looked out over the field and then came up to Jack.

  “So they got here too.”

  “They learn quick,” Jack said. “What happened back there?”

  “I’d just come out of the building. I wanted to get up here because of the alarm. It was the damnedest thing. Their aerosteamer came straight in at the factory, dropping right down on top of it, and four Merki leaped off carrying torches and went in. They blew themselves and the ship up. The damnedest thing.”

  He shook his head.

  “Two hundred people in there,” he whispered.

  “Theodor?” Feyodor asked anxiously.

  “Your brother’s all right. He was with me, he’s sorting things out now. But not much to sort.”

  Chuck stood back up, still in shock.

  “The damnedest thing.”

  From out of the smoke, Theodor suddenly appeared, running hard, and his twin brother rushed up to him, hugging him tightly, the two obviously fearful for the safety of the other. Theodor broke away from Feyodor’s embrace and cautiously walked up to Chuck.

  Chuck looked back at him.

  “I told you to stay at the factory.”

  Feyodor, his features pained, said nothing.

  Chuck looked away from him and turned back to Jack.

  “Let’s get you over to my place, and the other wounded as well. Olivia can help tend them.”

  “Mr. Ferguson?”

  He turned and looked back at Theodor, surprised at the formal tone.

  “What is it?”

  “She’s not at your place.”

  “What do you mean?” His voice trailed away. “I just left her there an hour ago.”

  “She came to the factory to look for you.”

  “What do you mean?” Already his voice was breaking.

  “She’s alive, sir, but…”

  “What are you saying? He grabbed hold of Theodor, shaking him.

  “She’s burned, sir, bad, real bad. They just pulled her out.”

  He pushed Theodor away and stood silent, swaying.

  “Olivia!” It was a drawn-out shriek of pain, and he ran madly off, back into the smoke, Theodor following.

  “Here it comes,” Andrew said coldly.

  A light breeze had finally stirred up from the west, causing the smoke to drift over the battlefield, revealing the opposite shore. A solid column of Merki, a full regiment across and three or more umens deep, started down the hill. Beside them, gunners were limbering up their artillery, ready to push the guns forward. To the rear of the column another umen was forming, mounted warriors, scimitars flashing.

  Andrew looked up at the blazing sky, the sun hanging motionless, the heat well above ninety. The hammering had been going on for nearly eight hours without letup. Fourth Corps had almost been overrun twice, fighting raging in the trenches hand to hand, Pat finally committing his entire reserve division.

  The charge was coming straight to the left of center. Andrew came out of his headquarters, Schneid following.

  “Get your reserve division aboard the trains, move them directly to the center, position them on the forward slope ready to go in. Now move it.”

  He ducked low as a shell screamed overhead, slamming into the side of his headquarters, the round detonating with a thunderclap, limestone dust and splinters raking across the yard. He stood up and looked back at his headquarters staff at the back of the bastion.

  “Get Barry to shift one of his reserve brigades down here—he’s holding his own with what he has. I’ll be at Third Corps headquarters.”

  An orderly brought Mercury up, and he mounted, guidon bearer, messenger staff, and bugler falling in around him.

  He nudged Mercury forward, crossing over the tracks, moving through the stake-marked path that guided them out of the line of entre
nchments atop the ridge and out into the open valley below. To his right, a quarter mile away, was the main line, still manned by Schneid’s first division, the position holding well, protected by the grand battery anchoring its flank atop the bluff.

  He gave Mercury a gentle tap with his heels, and the horse leaped forward, heading down across the open field, gaining a narrow dirt road which weaved through a row of vineyards, most of it crushed flat by the barrage. A steady stream of walking wounded filled the road, heading up the hill to the hospital area on the east side of Hispania. He knew Kathleen was there; he didn’t want to think about what she must now be doing.

  Vincent Hawthorne stood up from the trench, gasping hard for breath, squinting to see through the smoke. The ground before him was black with bodies, the last wave having gained the trench, the battle degenerating into saber, bayonet, and clubbed musket. He opened his hand, the blood still flowing from the saber cut to his arm, trickling over the dried blood of the Merki he had shot in the throat at point-blank range.

  It had felt good, and the pain of his own wound was barely noticed.

  “Here it comes!”

  From up over the edge of the riverbank, he saw the standards, the far bank of the river black with them, wave after wave sliding down, splashing into the river. The grand battery to his left, up on the south hill, plunged in a devastating crossfire, shells bursting over the river, solid shot raking the riverbank, knocking down entire rows, but still they came on.

  The first line appeared up over the low edge of the riverbank, two hundred and fifty yards away. Sheets of arrows, fired at long range, arced up high and rained upon the covered trenches.

  “Hold fire, hold!” Vincent shouted, his voice hoarse. The men around him were armed with smoothbores. Ramrods were worked feverishly, the brief lull giving them time to run swabs down the barrels to clean the choked bores. The men continued to load, many of them taking handfuls of buckshot out of their pockets and pouring them down the barrels, running down wadding on top.

  The enemy lines came up out of the riverbank and held, letting the mass build up behind them. This one was going to be different, not a charge all along the line, but rather a column aiming for one point.