Mark Leedom stood beside her in the gloom, much taller than the Lemurian captain of Rangers and Marines. He still had Flynn’s ’03 Springfield and it was slung on his shoulder, bayonet fixed. “I guess this is it?” he asked nervously.
Flynn chuckled. “I swear, Leedom. I’d be scared to death to fly around in one of those kites like you do. Relax. Folks have been fightin’ on their own two feet since there have been folks-of any kind. It’s a cinch.”
Leedom chuckled back. “Yeah, well, you know? I’ve learned to prefer to stay above such things.”
“Just stay close to Bekiaa here and you’ll do fine.” He nodded in the darkness. “Let’s go.”
There were no drums, no whistles. There was no audible command at all beyond Flynn’s soft words. As he stepped forward, the troops around him did the same, and each company down the line moved off the company beside it. The guns crept forward as well, with pairs of cannoneers on each wheel straining against the weight. Spokes creaked and small stones crunched beneath the iron tires. Prolong ropes trailed behind, held by the rest of the gun’s crews, ready to slow them as they reached the gradual slope. Flynn looked around him. He couldn’t see much in the dark, but what he could see in the brief, dull, distant flashes made him proud. He didn’t have much of a division left, but he was thrilled by the discipline, professionalism, and determination he felt around him. These ’Cats, his troops, had been through hell, and every one of them had to know what lay before them that night, yet there was no complaint. Even the wounded stifled their cries as the ambulances began to move behind the lines, painfully jolting the occupants. The paalkas lowed sadly, but it was a sound the enemy would be used to. Around the ambulances, now lost to view, Saachic’s cavalry would be moving.
God above, Flynn thought, focusing as hard as he could on the prayer. Even if this is it-you know, the End- thank you, Sir, for the opportunity to die with such fine folks!
Almost silently, the collection of shattered regiments swept down the slope as if they’d drilled alongside each other many times. At the bottom, as the ground leveled out, the cannoneers on the wheels of their pieces were joined by others, to preserve their strength. Each gun would fire its three shots as fast as possible, and to hell with the sponge-or any other safety measure-before its crew disabled it and joined the charge. On they moved, farther and longer than Flynn ever dreamed they would make it without discovery. No Grik horn had sounded yet, but time had to be running out. The enemy had been about five hundred yards away to start-beyond effective canister range-but they’d closed that distance to two hundred now, maybe one fifty, he estimated. It was impossible to be sure. Closer is better, he thought anxiously. It takes them half a minute or more to get rolling after the horns — Jesus! I think I can see their match cherries without a glass!
A deep, thrumming roar exploded in front of them with an almost physical force. Maybe it was an illusion, but it seemed impossibly close.
“Drummers!” Flynn immediately roared.
Drums thundered up and down the line, plied by younglings too young or small to carry a musket. Flynn had ordered that they jump on the ambulances when their job was done, but the blinking he’d seen when he gave that command made him doubt that many would. The cannons were already loaded; their vent pricks thrust into the charges to keep them in place during the advance. The drums had been the signal for the gunners to pull the pricks and prime their pieces.
“Division Artillery!” Bekiaa roared grandly. “At my command… Fire!”
Flynn clenched his eyes shut and opened his mouth-as he hoped everyone had done-and felt the rippling concussions pound his chest and ears and squeeze his eyeballs into their sockets. Thousands of pieces of canister moaned and whistled, but the sound was quickly replaced by a mounting shriek of terror and agony, and the staccato wooden, metallic, fleshy drumming of high-velocity metal slashing into an army.
“Muskets!” Flynn bellowed, echoed by the cries of the regimental and company commanders. “Present! Fire!”
A scorching volley seared out, the long jets of flame from crackling muskets finally showing Flynn the enemy- less than fifty paces away! My God! he thought. They’re right there!
“Independent, fire at will!” he roared, raising his own musket and shooting into the ragged mass of wailing, writhing Grik. The canister and musket volleys had been delivered so close and so suddenly that they’d hacked a gaping, gory hole in the center of the Grik line. Shredded grass fluttered down like red-green snow, and a haze of downy fur competed with the billowing smoke. The guns barked again, jolting back across the level ground in the knee-high grass, flashing like smoke-shrouded strobes, their muzzles slamming down before tipping up again, the breeches clanking hard against elevation screws.
Some Grik were already shooting back, shockingly fast after such a devastating surprise. Large balls verp ed past Flynn amid the swish of crossbow bolts, but judging by the flashes, a lot of Grik were still shooting wild, maybe blinded by the cannon fire. Flynn heard a metallic clung, and a ’Cat beside him pitched to the ground, a huge hole in the front of his helmet. He jerked his eyes away and concentrated on reloading his musket. With a skin-crawling swiftness that would never have been tolerated under other circumstances, some of the guns were already belching their third round of canister. Flynn looked just in time to see a gun ’Cat ram a charge down a smoking tube-and be shredded by the premature discharge caused by lingering embers. The rammer staff-and much of the ’Cat-added themselves to the projectiles the gun coughed at the Grik.
For the next several minutes while the remaining guns chewed the Grik before them into bleeding meat and shattered bone, the fight remained a fairly one-sided slaughter. The Grik were fighting back, but right then, where the weight of the blow had fallen, there was little they could do.
“Charge!” Flynn finally yelled, his voice cracking. Enough of the drummers had ignored his orders that the scratch division went forward accompanied by a mighty rumble. Muskets flared directly in toothy faces, and Rangers and Sularans crashed into the reeling Grik on the right, while Rangers and Marines drove left in a screaming, sweeping turn. A company of cavalry led by Captain Saachic dashed forward, down the middle, firing buckshot- loaded carbines and swinging their long, heavy swords, splashing themselves with blood as thickly as if they were crossing a stream. Nobody needed Flynn’s orders now; the fight was joined and they were stuck all the way in. The objective: Make a lane for the cavalry and the ambulances. That was it.
For the first time in a quarter century, William Flynn became nothing but an infantryman again. Incorporating much of what he’d learned from General Alden and Tamatsu Shinya and what he remembered from his own long- ago service, he’d basically written the new drill manual. He’d spent months teaching on the drill grounds at Baalkpan and later Andaman Island, demonstrating, remembering, adding, and writing it all down. Flynn’s Tactics had become the approved textbook for officer candidates throughout the Alliance.
Oddly, none of that meant anything at the moment as the muscle memory of battle, so long forgotten, came back as effortlessly as breath. He rammed his projectile, but just as he withdrew the iron rod, he was forced to lunge at one Grik with the bayonet as he stabbed another in the eye with the tapered, threaded end of his rammer. Backing away, he slammed the sticky, bloody rod back in its groove and lunged forward again, driving the long, triangular bayonet into a shadowy throat. Hot blood spurted at him and he spat the salty, raw-meat taste from his tongue. Grik were piling forward now, over the corpses and mewling bodies, trying to use their spears and small shields to batter the Gap closed.
The first ambulance plowed through, bouncing and grinding across the fallen. Fusillades of fire from the Marines atop the ambulances armed with Allin-Silva breechloaders punched through the puny shields and, usually, several enemies at once. The heavy bullets of the. 50-80s were hard to stop, and the rapid-fire muzzle flashes cast plenty of light on the killing. Flynn stabbed again, twisted, withdrew, then drove the butt of his weapon down on the long nose bridge/forehead of a Grik that attacked from behind. Trotting alongside the converted caisson for a moment, he stabbed at charging shapes with his bayonet while trying to place a new cap on the nipple of his rifle.
The noise was tremendous, even with the guns now silent. ’Cats trilled defiant cries, muskets fired on both sides, and the Grik shrieked or snarled their rage. The combination created an incredible surge of sound that subdued even the Grik horns that continued to blare. For an instant, he wondered again what had ever come of the idea to use the horns they’d captured against the enemy. They would help right then, he reflected, to confuse the Grik response to the breakout. Such a tool could likely only be used once, however, and even if he had them then, he probably wouldn’t have used them. This fight was the biggest test his Rangers would ever face, most likely, but regardless how momentous to him and his comrades, the outcome here would have little effect on the war. He continued stabbing.
Leedom was down right in front of him, on his hands and knees. His helmet was gone and his head was bloody. Flynn didn’t even wonder how the kid had gotten so far ahead of him; he just jerked him to his feet.
