Cloud Warrior

by Patrick Tilley

  Baxter, the F.O.O., acknowledged the revised orders and halted the lift taking Naylor’s Skyhawk up to the flight-deck. Naylor, who was already seated in the cockpit, steeled for his turn at Russian Roulette on the catapult, unstrapped himself and jumped out with evident relief. Baxter felt relieved too. Like all pilots, he was prepared to face death in the air, on a mission; that was the constant risk all fliers faced. But nobody wanted to get himself killed sitting in a grounded aircraft. That was about as useless as tripping over the bathroom mat and drowning with your head jammed down the john.

  Hartmann radioed Colonel Moore and told him to fall back with his men towards The Lady and form a new defence line beyond the five wagons jammed across the river bed.

  ‘Anvil One, all groups wilco, out,’ said Moore. He understood immediately what Hartmann intended to do and hoped like hell that he would wait until his loyal Field Commander had got clear.

  The wagon master then contacted Captain Clay and ordered him to pull his squads out of the main engagement so that he could reinforce and hold the downstream line. Finally Hartmann managed to get Barber in front of one of the external cameras and told him what was about to happen. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  Barber sounded exhausted. ‘The three tail cars are clear.’

  ‘That’s not enough, Stu,’ snapped Hartmann. ‘I asked for six.’

  ‘We’re doing the best we can,’ replied the harassed First Engineer. ‘I’ve got eight dead, another fifteen men wounded and–’

  Hartmann interrupted him. ‘Stu, I don’t need statistics, what I need are results, okay? Just do it.’

  Clay’s voice came over the speakers. ‘Anvil Two downstream and holding.’

  ‘Roger, Anvil Two,’ said Hartmann. ‘Just grind them down. No pursuit, over.’

  Clay came back on the air. ‘Anvil Two. Don’t worry, Lady Lou. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere. Too out of breath.’

  His words broke the tension in the saddle and brought grins to the faces of the execs.

  ‘Stand by on one to eight, Mister Ford,’ said Hartmann.

  The Second Systems Engineer activated a bank of switches on his control panel and checked the read-outs. ‘Head on eight.’

  Hartmann’s throat felt constricted. ‘Put up the CQ’s, please.’

  The fingers of the VisiCom Tech flickered nimbly over the line of switches giving Hartmann a comprehensive picture of the underside of the train and the ground on either side of it. The wagon master and his execs could see Moore’s combat squads falling back, locked in a running fight with the hordes of Mutes. Downstream, under the rear wagons, the damage control party worked feverishly to clear the remaining debris. Hartmann recognised the broad-shouldered figure of the Trail-Boss perched behind the driving seat of the excavator that Barber was now handling with confident ease.

  ‘Anvil One moving back under the train.’

  Hartmann watched tensely as Colonel Moore and his four-man command group appeared on screen, firing from shoulder and hip as they passed under the lead wagons. The linemen followed in waves, each turning to cover the retreat of the one behind. Their passage under the train was not as smooth as Hartmann had hoped. With the Mutes hard on their heels, the battle continued as they struggled through the piled-up debris; a primeval swamp landscape of tangled branches and shattered tree trunks, clogged with mud and festooned with long sheaves of sodden grass interlaced with limp foliage; a grotesque web woven by a giant drunken spider which trapped and hindered and which, as Tracker and Mute shot, hacked, stabbed and killed one another, quickly became a Dante-esque vision of hell.

  Hartmann waited a few moments more until the bulk of the Trackers had fought their way clear of the lead wagons. Several screens went blank as M’Call warriors smashed the external cameras with their stone flails. The remaining screens were filled with Mutes. ‘We’ll try one to six, bottom line port and starboard, Mister Ford,’ said Hartmann, in a matter-of-fact voice.

  ‘Head on six, bottom line,’ replied the Systems Exec.

  ‘Pipe steam!’

  The sound pierced the layers of armoured steel, lead, heat and sound insulation that lined the shells of the wagons, and for those outside it was far more terrifying than the weird noises made by the Mute wind-whips. It was a chill, shrill, ear-piercing shriek. A hideous, ball-shrivelling banshee wail that drilled into the brain, froze the heart. Invisible, laser-thin jets of high-pressure steam shot from the rows of nozzles along the curving undersides of the lead wagons; cutting through the air at supersonic speed, with the keenness of a surgeon’s scalpel and the irresistible, tearing force of a buzz-saw.

  The impact of the steam jets upon the Mute warriors surpassed the horror evoked by Dante and indelibly engraved by Dore. Caught completely unawares, locked in hand-to-hand combat with the last, unlucky linemen, and with escape hampered by the debris in which they found themselves entangled, a great mass of Mutes were blown apart. Skin, flesh, muscle were shredded, blasted from the bone; limbs were severed, bodies cut in half, their contents splattered in all directions, blood spurted onto some of the watching camera lenses, throwing a red curtain over the carnage.

  Even those who escaped the pulverising impact of this unseen fury were not totally spared. As the scything jets cooled to the point of visibility, the survivors were enveloped in clouds of scalding, blinding, blistering steam. The rear ranks of the M’Call Bears wavered, then turned on their heels and fled; those warriors who had been scarred by the breath of the snake but who were still on their feet ran, stumbled or tried to drag themselves to safety. Most were cut down by Colonel Moore’s men and The Lady’s gunners.

  ‘Clear the screens,’ said Hartmann. He covered his face and pressed his fingertips against his closed eyes in a vain effort to wipe the blood-stained images from his retina. His fingers could not reach deep enough. What he had witnessed had already imprinted itself on his brain: had become another gruesome page in his own private war diary that would haunt his mind’s eye in the darkness when sleep eluded him. He composed himself and addressed the Systems Exec. ‘Cap the line, Mr Ford.’

  The Second Systems Engineer shut down the jets. ‘One to six, capped.’

  Hartmann called up Clay. ‘Lady Lou to Anvil Two. Report combat-sit, over.’

  ‘Anvil Two. Remaining hostiles withdrawing northeastwards under fire, over.’

  Colonel Moore came on the air. ‘Anvil One to Lady Lou. It’s all over. They’re on the run.’ His voice was shaky but exultant.

  ‘Roger, Anvil One. Hold your position.’ Hartmann suddenly felt weighed down by the responsibility he carried as wagon master yet, at the same time, he was also sharply aware of the advantages of his position. He had been able to wipe the horror from the screens but there was no escape for his men out there on the ground. They had fought and died, had been subjected to the gruesome spectacle of a couple of hundred Mutes being turned into boiled mince right under their noses and were now faced with having to clean up the resulting mess before The Lady could get underway.

  Hartmann put himself through to the flight section and faced up with his F.O.O. ‘How many ‘hawks can we put up, Mr Baxter?’

  ‘Four sir. Naylor, and three silvers. Brickman, Fazetti and White.’

  Hartmann hesitated. ‘This’ll be their first real operation. Will they be able to handle it – I mean, after what’s happened?’

  ‘They can’t wait to go, sir,’ said the F.O.O.

  ‘Okay. Launch the air-strike.’ Hartmann cleared the screen and called up Lieutenant Commander Cooper, the Deputy Wagon master, stationed in the rear command car. ‘Mind the store, Coop. I’m going outside.’

  TWELVE

  The four remaining wingmen climbed into their cockpit pods with expressions of grim determination and were lifted up onto the flight deck where the ground crew unfolded the wings, locked them into place and ran the aircraft in pairs onto the port and starboard catapults. Once they were hooked onto the slings, the catapult booms were cranked up fifte
en degrees before hurling the Skyhawks into the air at a speed of fifty miles an hour. Naylor led Fazetti off the deck and set course for the forest; Steve Brickman followed Gus White towards the cropfields.

  Baxter, the F.O.O., watched them disappear with mixed feelings. In terms of casualties, it had been a catastrophic day. In all previous operations against the Southern Mutes, it would have been considered a disaster to lose eight wingmen in a month. Even if those now in the air returned safely, The Lady would have to make for one of the frontier way-stations to off-load the wounded and await the arrival of reinforcements. Baxter wondered how the result of The Lady’s first engagement with the Plainfolk would be received in Grand Central. The Amtrak Executive showed little sympathy towards wagon masters who put their trains in jeopardy; costly tactical errors and failures in leadership were dealt with harshly. And it was not only wagon masters whose lives were at stake. If a team of Assessors came on board, nobody was safe. Everybody’s performance was evaluated. Right down the line.

  The scarred, defeated M’Call Bears straggled back over the hilly ground to the east of the Now and Then River. Reaching the comparative safety of the tree-line beyond a steep escarpment, they flung themselves down in the shade. Some drank thirstily from a swift running stream while others, who had been scalded, splashed the cool water ineffectually on their raw, blistered skin. Slowly they gathered in dispirited groups, trying to estimate how many warriors had fallen to the iron snake.

  Given the disparity between the weaponry of the Trackers and the Mutes it was a miracle that any of the attacking M’Calls had survived. But as many an old soldier can tell you, Lady Luck – or her shadowy sister Fate – spares some in circumstances which defy comprehension; like English infantrymen who survived four years of trench warfare in World War One, or the US Marines who, against all odds, made it across the beaches of Guadalcanal and Tarawa in World War Two.

  Of Cadillac’s clan-brothers, Hawk-Wind and Mack-Truck had fallen; Motor-Head had survived, along with Black-Top, Steel-Eye and Ten-Four. Motor-Head had passed under The Lady seconds before Hartmann had given the order to pipe steam. A billowing cloud had engulfed him, searing his back and arms just as he faced sure and certain death under the guns of three linemen. His attackers had turned and fled. Terrified by the ear-splitting scream that obliterated the shrieking death agonies of his brother warriors Motor-Head had run blindly through the burning clouds up onto the bank. There he had paused long enough to glimpse the hideous slaughter wrought by the breath of the snake, had hurled his stone flail at the nearest sand-burrower in a last gesture of defiance, then had run away.

  Motor-Head was brave to the point of foolhardiness but he had enough wit to perceive that the iron snake and its masters were strong in ways that the Plainfolk did not understand. Mr Snow had given wise counsel but, in one respect, he had been mistaken. The sand-burrowers were not animals. They fought valiantly, like men. Motor-Head knew that, in single-combat, the Plainfolk were the stronger but the sand-burrowers had strange, powerful sharp iron whose crafting and function he could not even begin to comprehend and against which the bravery of the Bears was like rain before the wind. The Plainfolk were the greatest people on the earth but they were not greater than the iron snake and its masters who lived beneath it.

  Not yet. But there would come a time when the sand-burrowers would be defeated in battle. The time prophesied by Mr Snow when Talisman, the Thrice-Gifted One, would assume the leadership of the Plainfolk.

  Mr Snow appeared. A pale, grey, wizened figure, moving with faltering step and the aid of a long, knotted staff, among the trees. He moved among the exhausted warriors, greeting them with words of comfort, his face stricken with anguish at the sight of their raw wounds and scalded limbs, swollen as if balloons had been inserted under the skin. He sat down facing Motor-Head. ‘The Bears did well this day.’

  ‘Not well enough,’ muttered Motor-Head. ‘We ran from the sand-burrowers. We have lost standing.’ Tears trickled down his cheeks. ‘The Bears are nothing.’

  ‘The Bears have braved the breath of the snake, and the sharp iron of its masters,’ countered Mr Snow. ‘Only the greatest of the Plainfolk could have done that. From this day you must learn a new kind of courage – the courage to face failure, yes, even defeat.’

  Motor-Head’s eyes flared angrily. ‘She-ehh! Where is the standing in that?’

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Mr Snow firmly. ‘Mark my words well. It takes great courage to fight bravely unto death. The Bears possess this courage. Our clan-mothers give birth to heroes. The M’Calls have strong hearts. Their fire songs have sung of their greatness since The War of a Thousand Suns. But it takes even greater courage to taste fear, defeat and shame and still remain strong! To face the power of the sand-burrowers with your warrior’s pride unbroken, ready to fight again more bravely than before!’

  Motor-Head eyed him stubbornly. ‘You told us we must have the courage of Bears but fight like coyotes. Must we also learn to run like fast-foot? Must we turn tail, as they do, at the first scent of danger?’

  ‘Times are changing,’ replied Mr Snow. ‘The iron snake, the sand-burrowers…’ He sighed. ‘How can I make you understand? This is a whole new ball-game.’

  Motor-Head frowned. ‘You talk in riddles, Old One. The earth renews itself, yellows at the Gathering and becomes old before the White Death. The clan-elders age, die, and are reborn in different bodies. But some things do not change. The love of Mo-Town, the Great Mother, for her people. The courage of the M’Calls whose fire songs you guard within the head that we were born to defend. A warrior who shows fear, who runs from battle is without standing. He must bite the arrow before he is worthy to bear sharp iron again.’

  ‘I accept that,’ said Mr Snow quietly. ‘But you must also accept something. The old ways are finished. The Plainfolk must learn new ways to guard the earth until Talisman comes.’

  Clearwater was at the edge of the forest with a group of her sister warriors when the four arrowheads were seen in the western sky. Mr Snow had ordered her to guard the clan-elders and the den-mothers who had been persuaded to go deep into the forest with their newborn infants and all children under five years old. The She-Wolves – the young, female warriors – were dispersed at various points around the western edge of the forest ready to defend the hidden settlement if it came under attack. Clearwater was worried by the sight of the distant arrowheads. She had seen the burnt warriors brought back by the elders and had learned of the deadly fire-eggs carried by the cloud warriors. If they should fall upon the forest…

  Obliged by his renewed oath to stay out of the battle-lines, Cadillac had helped to organise defence of the crop-fields. This task had been given to the Bear Cubs – the M’Call children aged from six to fourteen grouped under pack-leaders and reinforced by a sizeable posse of She-Wolves. Since the clan’s treasured stock of crossbows had been taken by the Bears to attack the wagon train, the remaining M’Calls were poorly armed. Cadillac possessed the only crossbow – the proud trophy he had won in his combat with Shakatak D’Vine; the rest were equipped with knife-sticks, sling-shots and stones, all virtually useless against an attack from the air.

  Like Clearwater, Cadillac had seen the devastating effects of the fire from the sky. If the cloud warriors returned there was little the Cubs could do to stop them. He and Mr Snow had agreed that the clan’s efforts should be directed towards limiting the damage caused by the fire. Neither had dwelt on the possibility that the cloud warriors might not fly away immediately after dropping their eggs. Cadillac had put the thought resolutely from his mind and had concentrated on teaching the Cubs and She-Wolves how to make long-handled flat brooms from bunches of red-leafed twigs and young saplings with which to beat out the flames. He did not appreciate that the carefully designed adhesive qualities of napalm would render such precautions totally ineffective.

  The M’Call Cubs, their pack-leaders and the She-Wolves took up their allotted stations; some around the edge of the cropfiel
ds; others at strategic points within it. The very young children ran from group to group, bringing more stones to add to the piles which lay ready to be hurled at any attacker. The mood was one of defiant bravado mixed with apprehension – not from any fear of the cloud warriors, but from the worry about how they would acquit themselves.

  Snake-Hips, a young She-Wolf, flung a pointing finger in the air and called to Cadillac. ‘Look! They come!’

  Cadillac turned and saw the arrowheads circling over the mountains to the east; saw the sun flash off their graceful wings as they dipped and swung round towards him.

  Gripped by a tense feeling of excitement, Steve Brickman and Gus White swooped down from the hills and banked low over the cropfields. Gus dropped a smoke-canister to check the strength and direction of the wind; Steve studied the layout of the fields, trying to determine the best place to lay down the napalm to cause maximum damage. They were met by a rising barrage of missiles. Most of the hand-delivered ones fell short; some of the sling-shot projectiles bounced noisily off their cockpit pods or drummed against the taut wing fabric without causing any damage. One struck Gus White painfully in the side of the neck.

  ‘Little bastards,’ he croaked to himself.

  From his first low pass over the cropfields, Steve saw that the hostiles were nothing more than a bunch of mainly unarmed kids who, despite their show of defiance, posed no threat. On the other hand, if they did not move from their present position among the orange cornfields, they stood a good chance of being barbecued when he and Gus dropped their loads of napalm.