Never Sound Retreat (31 page)

Slipping back into the turret, he pulled the canvas cover off his weapon, motioning for his assistant to pop the firing slit open. Reaching to his right, Timokin checked the steam-pipe gauge, turning the valve which opened the line into his gun. A swirl of steam erupted around him. Checking the traverse on his gun, he sighted it in on the battery which was less than two hundred yards away.

The Bantag guns kicked back. Another clanging boom echoed through his machine, screams and curses following as bolt heads, sheared off by the strike, bounced around the interior. A searing pain sliced through his leg, and, looking down, he saw where his right calf had been torn open.

Ignoring the pain, he looked back through his sights. The gun crews were frantically reloading; the next volley would be delivered at less than fifty yards, most likely close enough to punch through. He saw several gunners drop from rifle fire, but still the Bantag worked to reload.

"Get ready," Timokin cried.

He waited for
Saint Malady
to level out from its wild charge down the hill. Bracing himself, he wrapped his finger around the trigger, said a silent prayer to the blessed Saint Malady, and squeezed the trigger.

The steam-powered Gatling gun sprang to life, barrel spinning. Fifty-eight caliber rim-fired cartridges from the side hopper dumped into the breech and tore out at the rate of eight hundred rounds a minute.

The first spray went high. Timokin released the trigger for an instant, correcting his sights as they went up over a small hillock. A Bantag gun crew was centered in his sights, and he squeezed again. The one-ounce bullets shredded the crew, and, traversing his gun, he tore a stream of bullets down the line. Every sixth round had a powder charge drilled through its core and Timokin watched, amazed as the tracer rounds seemed like a near-continual stream of fire guiding him in. Two more gun crews went down, and, raising his sights, he stitched a caisson, which detonated in a thunderclap explosion that shook the ironclad.

Panic erupted on the gun line, Bantag turning about, running, as one of the ironclads from third squadron opened fire as well. Two of the enemy guns were still fighting, though, and Timokin could feel the concussion of one of the ironclads from second squadron exploding.

Crashing right through the wreckage of the guns,
Saint Malady
charged forward, Bantag artillery crews scattering, running in panic. Ceasing fire, he stuck his head out of the turret, gasping for breath. The cloud of smoke and steam inside was absolutely blinding. Coughing, he looked back and saw that only one machine of second squadron was left. Behind them, several hundred yards away, the dark blue lines of infantry were racing down the hill, a battery following in their wake.

Saint Malady
shifted, and looking forward again, Timokin saw a mortar crew, set up in the open, looking up in wide-mouthed amazement as the ironclad shifted in its course, and came straight at them. The crew broke and ran, abandoning their weapon and ammunition limber.

The charging column going up the slope of Rocky Hill was now less than four hundred yards away and halfway to the tree line, while to his left, on the northern slope, he saw where the Bantag were already up over the boulders and into the trees.

Standing up in the turret, hoping to catch the attention of the ironclad commanders in third squadron, he pointed straight ahead, toward the column, then slipped back into the turret.

"Half-empty, sir."

Timokin, cursing, slapped the ammunition box strapped to the rear of the turret.

"Damn it, scoop some rounds out and reload the hopper, but don't get any in backwards!"

The boy pried the lid open and, reaching in, started to pull out handfuls of cartridges, laying them into the feed hopper.

Saint Malady
slowed as they started to angle up the slope, the machine laboring and Timokin cursed as the battle on his flank continued to press into the woods. But straight ahead the attack column was beginning to waver as the Bantag, seeing the ironclads approaching out of the smoke, realized that they were flanked. Mounted riders rode about them, waving battle standards, pointing up the slope, and for an instant he saw one mounted on a white horse.

"Ha'ark?" Timokin hissed.

The range was down to less than three hundred yards. Still a bit too far for his liking, but swinging his gun around he aimed at the rider and squeezed the trigger.

Stunned, Ha'ark saw the tracers walking up through the grass, coming toward him, as the enemy gunner raised his sights. The attacking host, who but moments before were surging forward to victory, slowed, looking in wide-eyed amazement at the machines closing in on their flank, many of them, at first, mistaking them for their own.

The staccato chatter of the Gatling gun reached Ha'ark, and he cursed, something that he had troubled over for so long and not been able to make, the humans had created. They had machine guns.

The tracers closed in, and, kicking his left foot out of the stirrup, he flung himself off his mount. Just as he hit the ground the horse reared up, shrieking in agony, and fell over, Ha'ark scrambling to get away from the dying animal's thrashing hooves.

"The Redeemer!"

The cry went up, an agonized wail, and looking up he saw his pennant falling, its bearer cut nearly in half.

He tried to struggle to his feet, but ducked back down as the bullets tore up the ground around him.

Timokin held the trigger down, sensing that keeping Ha'ark down was perhaps even more important than killing Bantag. A machine gun from third squadron joined in, followed within seconds by the other three, along with the one gun on his left from second squadron. It looked to Timokin like six hoses of fire spraying into the packed mass, and in that instant he sensed that what they were doing was yet again changing how war was to be fought upon this world.

His gun suddenly ceased firing and he looked over at his assistant who was struggling to reload, unable to keep up with the demand. Steam was venting out from the water casing that encircled the barrel mount, and he realized that he had come close to melting down the barrels. The gun would have to cool for a moment.

"Fill the hopper and get some more water into the barrel casing!" Timokin shouted. Letting go of the trigger, he stuck his head out of the turret.

The entire column was breaking apart, surging back to the south, running in mad panic, while the arcing lines of tracers pursued them. He could hear cheering and, looking back, saw where Third Division, Sixth Corps was finally catching up, the swiftest pushing ahead, leaping through the high grass past his machine. One of the ironclads from third squadron was already turning, swinging its Gatling fire up onto the northern slope of Rocky Hill, sweeping the Bantag advance clambering up through the boulders, tearing it apart.

He could hear artillery fire to the northeast, and through the smoke he saw flashes of light as first squadron, sitting at the bottom of the hill, fought it out with the surviving enemy ironclads, which were racing down the hill. Two of his machines were going into reverse, backing up to keep the range open. Explosions detonated along the open slope as several of the enemy machines exploded.

Turning his attention forward, Timokin slid down into the turret.

"Loaded, and the barrels are cooling!" his assistant shouted, pointing to the temperature gauge, which had drifted down out of the red.

Aiming high to avoid striking the charging line which was now ahead of him, Timokin arced a burst of fire into the retreating mob of Bantag, spurring the panic along. Remembering to pace his fire, Timokin fired a burst, waited a few seconds, then fired again.

Slowly they crept around the western side of the hill, catching a glimpse of the broad open plain to the south. Columns of horse riders were deployed nearly a mile away, but they were stopped already, drawing back. Raising his gun to maximum elevation, he squeezed off a hundred rounds, the shots arcing up high, then plunging down, the demonstration of fire more than enough to check any riders who were still considering pressing the attack.

Timokin looked over at his loader and finally nodded.

"Just tap it. Hold it for just a heartbeat or two, and aim high!"

Grinning, the boy slipped behind the gun, as Timokin dropped back down below. In the excitement he was unaware of the fact that his main gun had been pouring in fire as well, now firing shot at long range.

"Sergeant, steer her around so that we're guarding the southern approach."

"Major, we're damn near out of coal!" Andrei shouted. "You've been blowing steam like mad up there!"

"Just another minute or two, Andrei."

Watching through the open gun port, he guided the sergeant to a spur of land projecting off the side of Rocky Hill. Cresting it, he signaled Andrei to disengage the engine.

Blue-clad infantry, deployed in open order, were already several hundred yards ahead, the Bantag infantry streaming southward, the mounted warriors retreating out of range as well.

A hammering echoed on the side of his machine and, going aft Timokin pulled the hatch open, Andrei moaning with delight as the outside air, which seemed as cold as a January blizzard, swirled in. As he stepped out of his ironclad, the cold air caused Timokin to reel, feeling as if he would faint, and he leaned wearily against the side of his machine, looking up at Marcus.

"Hell of a fight!" Marcus roared.

Unable to speak, Timokin could only nod. Behind Marcus he saw two of his ironclads deploying farther down the slope, a battery of twenty-pounders swinging in beside them, the lead gun already tossing shells at long range.

"We're damn near out of fuel, water, and ammunition, sir," Timokin finally was able to gasp.

"I'll have them brought up. Hold here. You picked a good spot, but I think the fight's knocked out of those bastards for today."

Taking off his helmet, Timokin let it fall to the ground as he looked across the field. Hundreds of bodies, nearly all of them Bantag, littered the slope. The roar of battle still sounded from the north side of the hill.

"Marcus!"

Timokin was startled to see Colonel Keane coming around the side of his cruiser. Marcus, grinning, snapped off a salute.

"Damn good to see you, Marcus," Andrew said, leaning over in the saddle to shake hands. Timokin looked up wide-eyed at the legendary commander. The attention of the entire Republic had been focused on getting Keane and his lost units out. Now that it was accomplished, Timokin stared at the two generals. He sensed there would most likely be a print of this scene in Gates's paper; perhaps he would even

be in it as well, but at the moment he'd trade all of it for an ice-cold bottle of vodka.

"Andrew, you're wounded," Marcus cried, pointing at Andrew's bloody sleeve.

"Well, like Pat said, lucky the arm was already cut off. I'll live."

Andrew looked down at Timonkin and extended his hand.

"Your leg, son, it needs attention."

Timokin nodded, touched that his commander had noticed.

"Once things calm down, sir, I'll have someone see to it."

"Never really thought these damn things would work, Major. You charged like cavalry with them. Damndest thing. You could hear the Bantag howling in panic."

"Thank you, sir," Timokin whispered.

"How is it over there?" Marcus asked, pointing toward the north slope.

"They're breaking, streaming off to the east. You got here just in time. We're damn near pushed back to the summit; there was no place left to go."

Andrew, shading his eyes, looked southward.

"Can you keep those warriors back, Marcus?"

"The fight's out of them, sir."

"We've got ten thousand or more casualties to get out," Andrew announced, and to Timokin it seemed like all life had suddenly drained from his commander. "We've lost nearly all our wagons and horses when they pushed us back up the slope."

Marcus nodded toward the field.

"I'll get men upending their caissons, there's hundreds of horses loose out here. We've got a couple of hundred wagons at the rear of the advance as well." "Fine." Andrew sighed wearily. "I just want to get the hell out of here."

Andrew turned his mount about and rode off, Marcus following. Timokin watched as they rode up the slope.

"Sir?"

It was the gunnery sergeant, sticking his head out of the hatch and watching in awe as Keane rode off.

"Can we grab some air for a few minutes? The boys are damn near dead in there."

"Fine, Sergeant."

Another burst of Gatling gun fire erupted from the top turret, the rounds soaring high into the air before plunging into the open steppe.

"Tell that damn fool up there to cease fire."

Picking up his helmet, Timokin walked around
Saint Malady,
examining the dozens of pockmarks, dents, and buckled plates. A wagon, loaded with sacks of coal and barrels of water, lumbered up, the teamster shouting for some infantry to help him unload. Behind it a limber wagon arrived, carrying boxes of cartridges and shells.