“Have that imbecile Alai release his gunners to fire independently,” he fumed.
“And the rest of the artillery?” Anson prompted.
“At the discretion of the battery commanders. The enemy infantry and artillery will remain stationary a bit longer, I think,” Cox replied.
But it didn’t.
Even as the exploding case shot of thirty 10 pdr rifles and a dozen 12 pdr smoothbores still on the line flashed and raked the edge of the woods where the Dom artillery was setting up—a hellish experience for its gunners—the first division of Dom infantry, a tight formation half a mile long and six ranks deep, was already sweeping forward. The heavy morning air tended to a slight fog as the sun touched it, and without a wind, the thickening smoke made an increasingly opaque wall across the battlefield. The initial Dom advance was almost entirely masked.
Cox stood with his hands clasped behind him as one by one, the Dom’s terrifying monsters were taken down. The last one fell barely two hundred yards short of the breastworks. Unfortunately, the armabueys continued, urged on by their keepers.
“Damn,” Cox muttered, recognizing the threat. There might still be twenty of the brutes, and with the chains and carcasses stretched between them they could wreck his breastworks as easily as the great predators might’ve done. “All guns will focus on finishing those creatures. Marksmen will kill their handlers.”
Anson relaxed a trifle. He’d been concerned Cox would order infantry volleys against the few dozen dragon priests. That would make short work of them, with rifled muskets, but would waste a great deal of ammunition.
A couple of artillery batteries were already engaging the armabueys. Their thick, segmented armor might protect them from the raking claws of predators, but couldn’t stop a ten-pound shell traveling twelve hundred feet per second. They started dying in rapid succession, emitting loud rattling, gurgling sounds and flailing madly. Probably only the chains kept them from wrecking the breastworks in their death throes.
“We’ve done for them, at least,” a major next to Cox commented smugly. Then his eyes widened in alarm just as one of the telegraphers pulled the metal-strapped earpiece off his head. “Sir!” he exclaimed. “A report from Colonel—”
“We see them,” Anson interrupted. A solid wall of yellow and white uniforms was appearing in the smoke less than two hundred yards from the breastworks, stretching away to the left and right farther than they could see. Hundreds of their bloodred banners drooped listlessly above them, but that gave no real clue about their numbers. Most distressing, they were already twice as close as the Nussie’s rifled muskets should’ve been hammering at them. At the same moment, a Dom case shot exploded behind the temple in the street, followed by a virtual storm of explosions all over town.
“All the light rifles will resume their bombardment of the enemy artillery!” Cox shouted. “The heavy rifles and smoothbores still on the line will engage the infantry with canister.” Sharp, loud volleys started cracking along the breastworks as men in sky-blue uniforms brought polished rifle muskets to bear. “All infantry with the enemy in range to their front will commence firing,” Cox belatedly ordered.
Fred and Kari had eased back from the wall at the top of the tower and were unconsciously crouching each time an enemy shell went off. “I like droppin’ bombs a lot better thaan bein’ under ’em!” Kari shouted.
“Me too,” Fred agreed. “This doesn’t look like it’s going like it was supposed to.”
Captain Anson must’ve heard because he laughed out loud. Stepping over, he spoke for them alone. “I believe that’s beginning to occur to General Cox as well.” He waved to the south. “This Dom commander is no fool. His monsters surprised me completely. Our scouts never discovered them. But I still suspect their attack was just a distraction to prevent us from ravaging his forces while they deployed. They’re fine breakthrough weapons, but what’s the point of a breakthrough without infantry to support it? Still ‘General Dom’ read the circumstances, ground, and weather perfectly, and already deployed to a large degree before he ever emerged from the forest. Then he used his monsters to distract us and advance his infantry. A brilliant move.” He sobered as the sound of crisp volleys gave way to a rising roar of crackling musketry. “I fear the enemy has learned his art from your generals Shinya and Blair too well.”
CHAPTER 7
////// SE of Monsu
Holy Dominion
Despite how physically and emotionally hardened the newly promoted Colonel Blas-Ma-Ar had become, a few old friends still affectionately called her “Blossom.” Some of her own troops, in the “Sister’s Own” Division she commanded in all but name, called her that as well—behind her back. They did it with more irony than affection however, since they’d only come to know her after she’d “blossomed” into a ruthlessly effective combat leader. That didn’t mean they weren’t still fiercely loyal. On the contrary. Blas’s troops had seen more action and suffered more casualties against the Doms than any other division, but Blas always led from the front and they almost always won. That was particularly important to a division largely composed of “locals,” in a sense, with a very personal stake in the downfall of the Holy Dominion.
The Sister’s Own was part of what had come to be called the “Army of the Sisters,” in honor of Rebecca Anne McDonald, Governor/Empress of the Empire of the New Britain Isles; Saan-Kakja, the High Chief of all the Filpin Lands; and Sister Audrey, a young Benedictine nun who came to this world from a different Java. The division consisted of what was left of the 2nd Battalion, 2nd (Lemurian) Marines, Colonel Arano Garcia’s “Vengadores de Dios,” and now Colonel Dao Iverson’s 6th Imperial Marines, all rather oddly under the nominal command of “Colonel” Sister Audrey.
The 2nd of the 2nd had few ’Cat Marines left, but had swelled to brigade strength by incorporating human rebels against the Doms into their ranks. These were “Ocelomeh” or “Jaguar Warriors” who’d been struck by the vague resemblance Lemurians bore to the feline manifestation of their deity. Most now accepted that similarity was coincidental, but they’d been trained, armed, and equipped by Blas’s Marines and had taken the oath to the American Navy Clan. As far as Blas was concerned, they enjoyed full membership in the 2nd of the 2nd and would until the war was over and their obligation to a flag—the Stars and Stripes of another world—was at an end. She often wondered how many would stick, regardless.
The Vengadores were converted to the “true faith” by Sister Audrey and raised from the ranks of penitent Dom POWs after an abortive campaign on New Ireland (Oahu) against the Impies. Their ranks had swollen here as well, joined by other rebels whose adherence to a Christianity very similar to what Sister Audrey taught had resulted in bloody repression. Iverson’s 6th Marines had been added to make good the losses they’d all sustained in the Battle of El Corazon. Blas personally didn’t know how Iverson even survived the debacle under El Corazon’s southeast gate, let alone could still muster nearly six hundred men from his regiment, fit to fight.
At the moment, however, Blas hardly cared, and didn’t feel particularly “hardened” either. She’d been slogging through rainy forests and ankle-deep mud alongside her troops for three solid days. Ever since most of X Corps quietly landed at Monsu, a sleepy Dom town on the north coast of South America. Shinya was pushing them hard down narrow, thickly wooded tracks, south of the main “Camino Militar” the Doms maintained for rapid troop movements of their own. In contrast, this was a virtual game trail winding through passes between even more densely choked slopes, or switchbacking up and down actual mountains. The passage was probably sufficient for animal-drawn carts, but just barely managed their artillery and supply train, which only made the mud even worse. Blas wondered how General Tomatsu Shinya even knew these roads—such as they were—were here. Probably squeezed it out of some officers that surrendered at El Coraa-zon, she decided. Or maay-be they were on maaps we caaptured? Blas barely car
ed about that either. It was hard enough just sucking enough actual air past all the moisture saturating it.
With Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan’s support, General Shinya convinced High Admiral Jenks they had to push troops through the Pass before the League closed it off with Leopardo or some other powerful, modern ship. But Jenks was right to be cautious. The League had shown its hand and Leopardo had proven it could destroy anything they currently had. He’d refused to allow direct reinforcement of the NUS landing at El Palo, fearing Leopardo might still be near, and he wouldn’t take such a risk with the cream of Second Fleet’s Allied Expeditionary Force. Besides, even if they got troops ashore at El Palo, they’d have the same problem supplying them that the Nussies were contending with.
Shinya proposed a compromise. They had two captured Dom ships of the line, USS Destroyer (formerly Deoses Destructor) and USS Sword (formerly Espada de Dios), that should be able to make a few runs before anyone got wise, and they still had four swift sail/steam Imperial frigates that could time their runs through the most perilous seas at night. (“Most perilous” in this case meaning those farthest east.) They’d land X Corps at Monsu, 190 miles west of where the Dom General Mayta would try to block them at El Henal. That would still leave them five hundred miles from El Palo and the Nussies, but it was closer than they were. And once X Corps was ashore, Jenks wouldn’t have to risk any more ships in the Caribbean to supply it. The rest of the army under General Blair, whatever elements of XI and XV Corps Jenks didn’t need to hold El Corazon, could be shipped southeast to the occupied town of Manizales on the Pacific side of the Pass. From there it could march inland across already pacified territory. Blair would have to push even harder than Shinya to catch up, and he’d bleed troops to the necessity of establishing security for the route, but he’d be on the Camino Militar for the bulk of his march. In any event, if all went well, X Corps would get its reinforcements and the whole army would have a secure, if lengthy, line of supply from Manizales.
The plan was working, so far. It’s strange how, the longer we’re at this daamn waar, the more often thaat haappens, Blas reflected. Gettin’ better at it, I guess. Better at fightin’ thaan anything we ever done. She pushed that thought away and focused on breathing again. Arano Garcia’s Vengadores were trudging beside her, gasping just as loudly as her.
The Allied aircraft carriers, damaged in the battle for the Pass, carried XI and XV Corps down to Manizales on their way to the Enchanted Isles for repairs. X Corps’ landing went off almost without a hitch. Most occurred in darkness over several nights and there was the inevitable confusion, but no opposition at sea by Leopardo or anything else. The first wave utterly surprised the inhabitants of Monsu and the town was taken with a minimum of bloodshed. Quite a few people escaped, no doubt, and General Mayta would quickly get word at El Henal but what could he do? He’d strengthen his defenses at the larger city sitting astride the Camino Militar and wait for them. What he didn’t know, what almost nobody, even in X Corps knew, was Shinya had no intention of meeting General Mayta at El Henal. If Mayta wanted to fight, he was going to have to come to them.
“Colonel Blas,” came a gentle voice, intruding on Blas’s concentration. She looked up and blinked surprise at Sister Audrey and several others riding beside her on horseback. Audrey, as usual, was dressed like the rest in a long, tie-dyed camouflage smock held tight around her slim waist with a pistol and cutlass belt. Shoulder-length blonde hair spilled out from under a steel “doughboy” helmet. Blas knew Audrey’s weapons were cleaned and oiled every night by her orderlies, but she’d never drawn one herself. Blas’s own XO, Captain Ixtli, rode beside Audrey, followed by Captain Bustos, who served as XO for the Vengadores and Audrey’s personal guard after the loss of Sergeant Koratin. Blas felt a stab of loss remembering the strange former “lord” of Aryaal. Bringing up the rear was First Sergeant Spon-Ar-Aak, better known as “Spook” for his white fur. He was doing the job of a lieutenant in Blas’s 2nd of the 2nd.
“Hey,” she said. “Yeah? Whaat’s the maatter?”
“You didn’t even know we were here,” Audrey chastised her. “That’s how people get eaten along this track—as you well know.” She hesitated. “Did you even know where you were?”
Blas looked around. “Sure. Waalkin’ with the troops. We all oughta do thaat from time to time,” she added.
“You’re with the Vengadores,” Audrey pointed out. “Your Marines are up ahead.”
“So? All these troops’re mine, sorta.”
“Of course,” Audrey agreed. “But you started with the Second Marines. You’re tiring.” She didn’t point out that Blas was short, even for a ’Cat, and had to take twice as many steps to cover the same ground as a man—and the Sister’s Own was mostly human now. There were still female ’Cats in the 2nd, and female Ocelomeh too, but they didn’t stay up half the night seeing to the division’s business. Granted, Audrey, Garcia, Iverson, and their staffs all worked equally long hours—but they had the sense to ride. “You won’t be any use to your troops if you drop dead from exhaustion.”
Blas’s tail whipped with annoyance and she blinked it at Audrey.
“Besides,” Audrey blithely continued, “General Shinya wants us.” Shinya remained near the middle of the column so he could react to reports from in front or behind.
“Who has the front?” Blas should’ve remembered.
“Colonel Garcia. Iverson leads the other column.”
Finally, Blas nodded. “Okaay.”
Spook hopped down from his horse, holding his Allin-Silva rifle high. He hit the ground with a splap. “Don’t worry, Col-nol,” he said, grinning. “I’ll shove these laaggards along!”
The huffing men managed a few good-natured groans. Oddly, Blas was pleased by that. All these men, original Vengadores or new recruits, had grown up under the menace of the Dominion. The slightest expression of discontent was liable to get them impaled, nailed up and burned alive, or “sacrificed” atop a stone pyramid. She’d never seen any of those acts performed and hoped she never would. She’d seen the aftermath, though, and done her best to instill a real sense of shared purpose and belonging in these men. Key to that was the time-honored tradition of allowing soldiers and sailors to share their discomfort, fear, or unhappiness by griping about their lot: spreading it around and having it confirmed by others. There were limits of course, and the troops themselves wouldn’t tolerate whining, but it was the simplest way to let them vent a little steam before the pressure stoked it into genuine resentment. She was glad these men trusted her enough to let her hear a little grumbling.
She climbed in the saddle Spook had just vacated and plastered a false grin on her face as she called out, “So long, fellas. Enjoy the stroll. I’ll see you in caamp tonight—aafter my baath!”
A few hoots followed her as she rode off beside Sister Audrey. Her fake grin turned to a small, real smile.
“You see?” Audrey chuckled. “You know more about this dreadful business of war than I will ever grasp, but there’s one thing I can tell you. Oftentimes, those you lead don’t want you around them all the time. They like it on occasion, and I spend a fair amount of time with them myself. But they know you have more important things to do than slog through the mud beside them, and they’d generally prefer that you do it.”
They trotted back down the line trying not to splash the troops or throw too many clumps of mud their way. It took quite a while. There were roughly thirty thousand troops in X Corps, marching down two vaguely parallel tracks, each rarely wide enough for four to march abreast. Then of course, they had to stop and wait while batteries of guns creaked and spattered their way through clumps of mighty tree trunks too dense to go around. They finally joined a squad of dragoons approaching along an intersecting path and followed them to a full company of dragoons surrounding a group of riders plodding along in front of a line of wagons. One was larger than the others, covered with canvas on arched
wooden hoops. It was Shinya’s personal wagon, with a real bed and even a head—of sorts—inside. Basically, it was just a seat over a hole in the wagon deck, but it was sheer luxury under the circumstances. Blas suspected it once belonged to some Dom officer.
Shinya saw their approach and urged his mount to meet them. In addition to the traditional long mustaches, full beards were now fashionable among Imperials—possibly because so many of the original destroyermen wore them—and Shinya had attempted one himself. It had been a poor, sparse thing, and he’d ended up keeping only a mustache. Otherwise he looked the same as always: trim and fit with dark hair and eyes, wearing the same helmet and combat smock as everyone. The men and ’Cats around him had to spur their horses forward. Blas knew most, but some had been members of General Blair’s staff and Blas hadn’t seen them before.
“Good afternoon,” Shinya said, noting Blas’s muddy, rumpled state. No one dismounted and the column continued on. “I hope the march hasn’t been too taxing for you.”
Blas blinked disdain and would’ve rendered an apparently universal hand gesture if they’d been alone. She’d almost hated Shinya once, but had learned to understand, even appreciate his brand of ruthlessness. Their relationship was still tense at times, but also somehow more relaxed, one-on-one, and Blas suspected they each recognized a bit of themselves in the other.
“It’s been tiring for us all, I’m sure,” Sister Audrey interjected wryly.
“Not too many dangerous animals?” Shinya inquired. “I’ve heard few shots.”
Captain Ixtli cleared his throat. He and Captain Bustos were the best qualified to comment on local conditions. “Your riders—‘dragoons’—help, casting about in front of the columns and along the flanks. They discourage the smaller predators.” He was talking about creatures similar to Grik that roamed in packs, always fighting one another. And they wouldn’t attack without an overwhelming advantage. That and the fact they seemed to recognize when their human prey was armed argued for intelligence of a sort. “None of the smaller grass or leaf eaters is a threat if left alone,” Ixtli added, then seemed to consider. “Some of the larger predators might actually be tempted by the size of our force, and without air support only artillery can harm them.” He shrugged. “But our numbers also frighten the larger leaf eaters away and the hochiquatl, ah, ‘great dragons,’ follow them.”
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