Men of War Read online

  “Keane …”

  It was a distant cry, a lone voice, sending a shiver down his spine, reminding him of the moment of triumph at Hispania, his name a cry of victory.

  Someone else picked it up, a woman, closer, standing in the open doorway into the rifle-barrel works. She took the kerchief off her head and waved it. The women around her joined in, the name echoing across the valley, accompanied by the cry of a modern age, a locomotive whistle, then another, then the whistles of the factories.

  Embarrassed by the outpouring, he did not know what to do. There was the temptation, to be sure, and he sensed that at this instant it would be all so easy.

  Washington at Newburgh, he thought. But that was easier—the stakes were not the choice between life or annihilation—it was an abstract, an ideal that Washington preserved. Or was it?

  The thoughts raced through his mind. How easy it would be even now to turn Mercury about, point toward the city, and surely they would follow. And then what?

  He could sense Kathleen, and looking over his shoulder, he saw her gazing at him, eyes filled with pride.

  “Don’t you think it’s time we pushed on?” she asked softly.

  He smiled. Her words were enough.

  Without saluting, without looking back, he rode out of Suzdal and headed north toward the great woods.

  * * *

  Stretching wearily Jurak stepped down from the car, taking the dispatches that a courier pressed into his hand. He scanned through them, taking particular note of the last one that had just been relayed up all the way from Huan.

  Yankee aerosteamers report, leaving Xi’an. Sighted by station at Chu-lin. Heading east.

  Chu-lin? It was the town where Ha’ark had staged maneuvers last year to show the superiority of the new weapons to the clan chieftains. Nearly a third of the way between Xi’an and Huan.

  It had to be Hans. So he was going all the way. The airships most likely could get to Huan, but it was doubtful if any would ever be able to get back. This was the desperate bid, not just to disrupt his supplies but to destroy everything.

  Brilliant … and insane madness.

  He skimmed through the other dispatches. The transport carrying thirty new land ironclads was at Camagan and was off-loading already.

  He jotted down two quick notes in the clumsy block print of the Rus and handed them to the telegrapher. Parked a hundred yards north of the track, three aerosteamers were waiting, the fastest of the new twin-engine designs, propellers spinning lazily. At his approach the pilots came stiffly to attention.

  “Which one do I fly in?”

  “Mine, my Qar Qarth.”

  He nodded, walking up to the pilot. Strange, most likely five years ago this warrior was horse-mounted, illiterate, never dreaming of what would be.

  Jurak slowly walked around the machine, inspecting it. He felt a slight knot in his stomach. He had never much cared for flying, but on the old world it was in vast cavernous six-engine transports, capable of spanning continents to disgorge hundreds of assault troops. Now it was a flimsy hybrid, a sausagelike hydrogen airship with wings tacked on for lift and wheezing steam engines for power. The only factor that even allowed this damn thing to fly was the lighter gravity of this world, and even with that it could barely stagger aloft.

  Taking a deep breath, he reached up and pulled himself into the cockpit and strapped into the narrow forward seat, the pilot climbing up to sit behind him.

  “My Qar Qarth, the umbrella pack is what you are sitting on. Hook the harnesses over your shoulder. If I tell you to get out, do it quick. You then pull the rope on your left side.”

  Jurak nodded as he followed the pilot’s orders.

  “The gun between your feet, my Qarth. You are responsible for shooting that. The hand crank on your right side fires it.”

  Jurak knew a bit more about this, having sketched out the designs of it more than a year ago, a primitive crank-powered machine gun.

  “Are you ready, sire?”

  “Ready.”

  Within seconds both engines were at full power, and the machine slowly lurched forward, bouncing and rolling over the rough grassy field, and finally lifted, heading due west into the morning breeze.

  The pilot banked the machine, passing over the locomotive that had carried him two hundred miles back from Capua during the night. As they leveled out, flying low, less than a hundred feet off the ground, he caught a glimpse of one of his two escorts turning sharply, cutting in to come up on their left side. Below, hundreds of Chin slaves stopped their labors for a moment, faces upturned to watch.

  He saw the flashing of whips, dark towering forms gesturing, urging the humans back to their tasks. With the wind at their backs, they quickly picked up speed, racing eastward, the single line of track their guide.

  They passed a locomotive stopped on the main line, most likely waiting for the train that had carried him to this rendezvous with the air machines to back up onto a siding. The vast open plains were dotted with villas, small villages, all of this once part of the Roum lands, ruled over by the Tugars. The wreckage of war was complete. Not a building was intact. They skimmed over a river, the ruins of a bridge still blackened, a fresh span built by Chin slaves looking dangerously weak. As they slowly continued to climb he could discern the Great Forest to the north and far to the south the rising of the ground into hills and distant mountains beyond.

  He settled back. It would be a long day. First to their base at the northern edge of the ocean to refuel. Then the flight across it to a base on the eastern shore to refuel again, and from there by the middle of the night to Huan, where he suspected the true battle was about to be fought.

  This day and the next might very well decide everything, all of it. He knew that in his heart. And in anticipation of what was to come he settled back in his chair and let the hum of the engines lull him to sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Damn!”

  Hans snapped his hand back from the shattered throttle controls. His fingers stung, blood seeping out from the wood splinters studding his palm.

  “The throttles!” Jack shouted.

  A forward windowpane exploded, showering them with glass.

  “I knew this place would be hot!” Jack cried. “Under your seat. The master fuel valve, shut it down!”

  Hans spared a quick glance up. The place they had chosen to land was an open field adjoining the factory where he had once labored as a slave. So much had changed though over the last year. A new factory, plumes of black smoke pouring out of half a dozen smokestacks occupied the adjoining ground to the west. From the open doors of the compound he could see dozens of Bantag pouring out. Shots were punching into the gasbags behind him, a loud twang announcing that a support wire for the starboard wing had separated.

  Grimacing with pain, Hans reached under the seat, fumbling about, his hands coming to rest on a cold brass valve. Hoping it was the right one he turned it, and at the same instant all four engines throttled back.

  “Don’t shut it completely.”

  Hans looked up. The open field they had chosen for landing was directly ahead, just to the north of the rail yard where he and his escaping slaves had hijacked a train for their run back to the outskirts of Xi’an.

  A thin skirmish line of Bantag ran out into the field, several of them already kneeling, firing, levering breeches open to slam in fresh cartridges.

  An aerosteamer passed over Hans, momentarily casting a shadow. The machine was flying full out, banking over sharply, a stream of fire pouring down from the topside gunner, rounds stitching the field, breaking up the skirmish line, scattering them.

  “Fire!”

  The scream came from the lower cargo compartment’s speaking tube. Hans craned forward, looking out at the starboard wing. A flicker of orange-blue flame trailed from the outboard engine. The fabric around the engine was burning as well, fire tracing with red-hot fingers along the trailing edges of the upper and lower wings.

  “
Full off!” Jack shouted.

  Hans turned the master valve the rest of the way, shutting down all four fuel lines. The machine simply dropped. Jack nosed it down, heading straight for a drainage ditch bordering the west end of the field, pulled up at the last second, bobbled up a dozen feet, then slammed down hard.

  The upper wing on the starboard side ignited, fire leaping inward toward the volatile hydrogen gasbags.

  “Out, everyone out!” Jack cried.

  Hans fumbled with his harness, unbuckling, cursing from the pain as he snatched up his carbine, tossed it out the bottom hatch. Without waiting to unroll the ladder, he dropped his legs through the bottom opening, took a deep breath, then lifted his arms over his head, falling the dozen feet to the ground, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

  Stunned, he couldn’t move. Jack crashed down beside him. He felt Jack grabbing him under the shoulders, dragging him clear even as he continued to clutch his carbine.

  A long staccato burst of fire roared. As they cleared the side of the ship he saw that their top gunner was still firing. Pouring a continual stream of Gatling rounds into a column of Bantag storming out from the two compounds, he dropped dozens of them.

  “Get out!” Jack screamed, as the flame from the starboard wing hit the side of the forward gasbag. Within seconds the fire bored a hole through, hitting the hydrogen that spilled out, combining with the surrounding oxygen and flaring into a dull ghostly blue light. The entire side of the airship peeled open.

  The boy topside continued to fire, sweeping his Gatling around, pouring fire across the rail yard, tearing apart the small warehouse that had served as the exit for the escape tunnel Hans and his men had dug. As the rounds punched through the flimsy wooden structure Hans could hear the Bantag screaming inside.

  The gun fell silent, the steam line hooked to the inboard starboard engine having burned through. The boy stood up to jump clear even as his cockpit collapsed into the burning bag.

  A round exploded out the back of his chest. He tried to stagger clear, the cockpit disappearing, falling into the roaring inferno, and the boy disappeared. Cursing, Hans looked away.

  He heard Ketswana shouting and caught a glimpse of the enraged Zulu, followed by his men, pouring out from under the burning airship, one of the men somehow dragging clear a precious crate loaded with revolvers and extra ammunition.

  A second airship skidded to a stop behind Jack’s burning machine, disgorging its assault team, the top gunner emptying his Gatling in support fire as well. A third machine crashed into the left of Jack’s machine, pivoting about as its forward wheel collapsed from the hard landing. A fourth airship, coming in too low, crashed on the top of the third machine, crushing the topside gunner, nosed over the bow of the third ship, and slammed into the ground, forward cockpit disappearing, wings snapping off and pivoting into the gasbags, which exploded. Half a dozen men tumbled out of the cargo compartment.

  Another airship, abandoning the approach, soared overhead, banking sharply, starboard wing almost clipping the warehouse, which had been shredded by Gatling fire. The topside and forward gunners let loose a stream of fire as they pivoted over the landing site. Another airship, clearing the pileup of the first four, touched down smoothly, followed seconds later by another and yet another.

  Ketswana and his skirmish line were already past the warehouse, which was beginning to burn, screams of dying Bantag echoing from within. The building suddenly detonated with a thunderclap roar, bits of lumber, bodies, and kegs of powder soaring up, bursting like shells at a Fourth of July celebration, the explosion enveloping an airship overhead and knocking down several of Ketswana’s men.

  Debris rained down; Hans crouched into a tight ball, and Jack threw himself over the old sergeant. Peeking out, Hans saw a burning barrel plunge down next to the airship that had landed behind Jack’s machine, blowing a few seconds later, destroying that ship as well, catching the pilot and copilot as they tried to scramble away.

  “We’ve landed in a madhouse!” Jack roared. “I’ll handle the landings! Secure this area, otherwise, we’ll all be slaughtered.”

  Letting go of Hans he came to his feet, ignoring the debris still tumbling from the heavens, and raced out into the field, waving his arms, trying to flag the other airships off from their landing approaches. Hans saw two machines banking hard to the north, turning away, but another one came straight in through the spreading plumes of smoke, clearing the confusion, touching down, men from the cargo hold tumbling out before the ship had even stopped.

  Numbed, Hans slowly came to his feet, his mind a mad jumble of confusion. A squad of troops, Chin dressed in uniform, sprinted past, their lieutenant shouting for them to press into the first factory. He fell out, coming up to Hans.

  “Sit down, sir.”

  Hans looked at him, confused.

  The Chin officer gently helped Hans down to the grass, undoing a red bandanna tied around his throat and started to wipe Hans’s face. Hans flinched. Shards of glass from the exploding window, he vaguely realized. The officer talked softly, as if soothing a child, falling into the dialect of the camps, the strange combination of Chin, Rus, Zulu, a polyglot language of the slaves.

  “We’re back now, now we’re back with guns. Listen, listen.”

  The blood cleared from his eyes, Hans looked up to the smoke-shrouded gate. Ketswana stood silhouetted in the gateway into the factory where they had once been slaves, carbine held overhead, his battle chant serving as a rally cry. There was something else as well, though, a loud roaring cry, the screams of thousands of men and women.

  Legs shaky, Hans got to his feet, the Chin lieutenant, who was nearly his own age, helping him along.

  “We free our brothers here, then we rest, old friend. We drink cha, and then we watch the Bantag slave.” He chuckled.

  He stepped around the bodies of two of the men caught when the warehouse blew, both of them torn and horribly burned. On the main rail line the wreckage of the aero-steamer destroyed in the explosion was a piled-up ruin, burning fiercely. Miraculously, most of the men in the cargo compartment apparently had survived, though badly shaken, and were huddled to the side, staring blankly at the inferno.

  “Get in, get in!” the lieutenant cried, pointing toward the gate. Several still had their carbines; the others drew pistols and woodenly shuffled off.

  As Hans reached the gate he recoiled in horror. First there was the stench, the sickening cloying stench of the camps, the unwashed bodies, the steamy heat of the foundry, the musky smell of Bantag, and the deeper underlayer of rotting food, human waste, death, and a strange surreal sense that one could also smell terror.

  The camp inside the compound was a scene of murderous chaos. Ketswana had wisely stopped his men just inside the barrier, drawing them up into a volley line. Occasionally one of the men raised a carbine to fire, but it was the thousands of slaves inside the compound who were doing the job. The prisoners were in full riot, swarming like a writhing host of maddened insects, tearing apart the remaining Bantag in the main courtyard. They had charged across the dead space that separated the perimeter wall from the barracks and were now up on the battlements. Frantic Bantag backed up along the upper walkway, furiously trying to keep the enraged host back. From down inside the camp, prisoners were pelting the trapped Bantag with lumps of coal and hunks of twisted rocks from the slag heaps until their comrades moving along the battlement walkways closed in. Four, six, sometimes a dozen died, until finally one overpowered a Bantag and knocked him off his perch to fall screaming into the waiting grasp of the mob below.

  Hans spotted a knot of several dozen Bantag cutting their way through the compound, fighting to gain the doorway into the vast cavernous foundry building that dominated the center of the compound. Hans shouted for Ketswana to cut them off. Together Hans, Ketswana, and several squads of his troops pushed their way through the surging crowd.

  The Bantag gained the door just ahead of them, his own men unable to fire owing to the press of
Chin slaves between the two groups. The first couple of men to gain the entryway were dropped by fire from within the building. Hans pressed against the warm brick wall of the building, edged up to the huge open doors, which were wide enough that a railroad boxcar could be rolled in, and peeked around the corner. The Bantag were inside, deploying into a line not a dozen feet away. One raised a rifle, and Hans jerked his head back, a spray of brick fragment snapping out as the Bantag fired.

  The Chin swarming around the door backed away as a concentrated volley tore into them. Hans looked over at Ketswana, who nodded without having to be told. A second volley slashed out; more Chin dropped. Ketswana seemed to be counting, he held his carbine up. Another volley flared.

  “Charge!”

  Ketswana leapt from the side of the building, carbine leveled, firing from the waist. Others charged after him, firing as they came around the side of the building. Hans tried to follow, but the Chin lieutenant pushed him back, stepped around the corner, fired, and was knocked backwards by a ball that caught him squarely in the face.

  Hans stepped over the body, firing blindly, and caught a glimpse of a Bantag crumpling only feet away. The Chin mob, which had been recoiling from the hammerblows, now turned in a mad frenzy and charged into the warehouse, knocking Hans up against the wall, Ketswana and the men who had followed him disappearing in the crush.

  The thin Bantag line collapsed, the warriors breaking, running in panic, some turning to go up the north wing of the foundry, others running to the south. Hundreds of Chin pushed in. Hans dodged around the side of the first furnace just inside the door. Looking up at the wall he saw that the damnable treadmills were still there, their human occupants still locked inside, bony hands clutching the side, all of them shrieking in rage.

  A Bantag dodged past Hans, running blindly, stumbling straight into a stoking crew. Long iron stoking rods were now weapons. The Chin slaves fell upon the Bantag, the first one dying from the Bantag’s bayonet thrust. One of the Chin, grasping the rod like a club, caught the Bantag across the knee, breaking his leg. The Bantag went down like a felled tree, then tried to scramble back up on his one good leg. Another one caught him across the back, and he collapsed, rolling over. Screaming with insane rage, one of the Chin straddled the Bantag, held his iron rod up like a spear, and drove it down straight into the Bantag’s face. Then all of them started to beat the still-trembling corpse.