Assault on Atlantis

by Robert Doherty

  Then the peace had come and the great demobilization. Custer, although still a major general in brevet--a basically honorary title--was reduced in rank to captain in the regular Army. He managed to crawl back up from that, and when the Army was reorganized in 1866, he was appointed lieutenant colonel of the Seventh Cavalry. There was a colonel who by letter commanded the Seventh; Bouyer had actually met Colonel Sturgis when he had visited St. Louis with Bridger the previous winter.

  General Sherman, who commanded the Western Department, had lashed Sturgis to a desk in Mounted Recruiting Command in St. Louis and turned the Seventh over to Custer. Bouyer knew that Sturgis, at fifty-four, would not have been able to push the regiment like Custer had the last several days in this harsh weather. The bottom line was that everyone felt Custer was the great Indian fighter, at least by reputation. Half the regiment thought Custer walked on water, the first sergeant one of them. The other half despised him, which wasn’t good for morale.

  They reached the top of the bluff overlooking the village. The men deployed, many still wrapped in rough wool blankets, trying to stay warm in the bone-chilling air. No alarm had been given. Bouyer was surprised there were no guards about, even just to watch the pony herd from thievery.

  Custer climbed onto his horse, the other cavalrymen doing the same. Bouyer was surprised when Custer turned to his hand and deployed them, instruments ready, along the top of the bluff. Custer nudged his horse forward and began to descend toward the village, the line of troops to his left and right following suit.

  *****

  Crazy Horse was as still as the stunted tree he stood next to. Black Kettle’s village lay to the east and below. He could see the line of blue coats descending the bluff across from his location. No guards-Black Kettle deserved what was coming. Crazy Horse glanced to the east. Dawn was close, as he could make out a red glow on the horizon.

  *****

  Bouyer followed the wave of troopers down the bluff, sweeping toward the village. As the troopers increased speed to a gallop, the band broke into music, playing “Garry Owen,” the Seventh Cavalry’s song. A shot rang out as a brave burst out of his lodge, firing wildly. A ragged volley came from the charging troopers in response, several bullets striking the warrior and knocking him back against the lodge.

  Bouyer pulled back on his horse’s reins, halting at the edge of the village. The scene was surreal as cavalrymen charged through the village, firing at point-blank range at anything that moved while the sound of the band playing floated overhead.

  To his right one of Custer’s officers was hit, a bullet ripping through his heart and out his back. The man stayed in his stirrups for several more strides of the horse before toppling off, landing in the snow with a puff of white powder. It was pandemonium in the village as soldiers raced to and fro, firing at anything that moved, including dogs. There was no coordinated defense, just warriors using whatever weapon was handy to fight back. There was no distinction between those who fought and those who tried to run, between men and women or even children.

  A bullet whizzed by Bouyer’s face, and he realized he also was being shown no distinction by the warriors. He swung off his horse, drawing his rifle. Two years ago he’d reluctantly traded in his muzzle-loading Hawkins for a Henry repeating rifle, giving up bullet caliber for speed of firing.

  Bouyer rested the barrel of the rifle over his saddle but didn’t shoot. The camp was bedlam, with no hope for the braves to mount an effective defense as they were tom between fighting and saving their families. Bouyer saw Black kettle mount a horse, grab one of his wives, placing her in front of him on the horse, and gallop toward the river. Several soldiers also saw the chief. Bullets peppered the old man’s back, passing through him and killing his wife also. Both boodles toppled into the water.

  A young Cheyenne girl ran out of a lodge that had been set on fire. A mounted soldier rode by and slashed at her with his saber, opening a bloody wound along the top of her skull. But the girl kept running. The soldier wheeled his mount and came back for a second try. Bouyer fixed the soldier in his sights and his finger caressed the trigger.

  He didn’t fire.

  The saber hit the girl’s left shoulder and sliced through her clavicle into her chest so deeply it was ripped out of the soldier’s hands as she fell to the ground mortally wounded. He halted his horse and dismounted. Putting a boot to the dead girl’s chest, he pulled the saber out, wiped the blood off on her clothes and reheated it. Then he drew a skinning knife and Proceeded to scalp the girl.

  Scenes like this were playing out all over the camp. Bouyer pulled back his rifle, leaving it dangling at his side as he stood, as if in the eye of an insane hurricane, surrounded y death and barbarism. He saw two soldiers firing at a running boy, taking turns until finally one dropped the child, a round blowing off the top of his head. Lodges were being set ablaze, and the smoke added to the confusion. Still the band played on.

  There was little resistance left, the survivors running or trying to hide in gullies or behind bushes. The top of the sun was showing on the horizon. Spelling doom for those who were hiding as soldiers tracked them down and executed them.

  Bouyer tied off his horse to a sapling and slowly walked through the camp. He saw women and children being killed, some being used as sport by mounted soldiers with sabers. And where was Custer? Bouyer wondered. He spotted the regimental commander by the pony herd with a few of his officers. Bouyer walked over, eager to be away from the slaughter.

  “I Want a count,” Custer was ordering. “Of everything. Ponies. Bodies. Weapons. Robes. Food. A written report. Then burn it all. Every single thing.” Custer had turned and was surveying the village. He pointed at a fine white lodge, not yet on fire, which Black Kettle had run out of. “I want that taken down and packed. · Mrs. Custer would appreciate it.”

  He turned back to the large pony herd, about four hundred head, Bouyer estimated. “Officers and scouts may choose whatever they want. Kill the rest.”

  One of the officers protested. “Sir, that’s a lot of horses to be--”

  Custer spun on the man. “Damn it, do as I say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The general mounted his horse and rode off. leaving the officers debating how they should go about the gruesome task. Bouyer watched as they detailed soldiers to try to slit the ponies’ throats, but that proved difficult because as soon as a white man approached the tethered animals, they’d go wild, bucking and lashing out with their hooves.

  Finally they settled on shooting them. Bouyer turned away as the slaughter began. The sound of wounded animals added to the insanity. As he made his way back through the village, he halted and slowly turned to the west. A warrior was standing a half-mile away on the bluff.

  In his excitement and subsequent disgust at what he was witnessing, Bouyer had not listened to his inner voice.

  *****

  Crazy Horse saw Bouyer amidst the death below him. He had yet to see his “brother” take part in the battle, but it did not matter--he was with the blue coats. Crazy Horse saw two soldiers run down a squaw, throwing her to the ground near the western edge of the village. He mounted his horse and rode, keeping to the cover of the brush.

  He heard them before he saw them--one of the soldiers was grunting with pleasure. Crazy Horse came around a thick bush and fired, the round catching the standing soldier in the face and knocking him backward. The one on top of the woman looked up, pleasure mixed with shock on his face. Crazy Horse dismounted in one smooth movement, drawing his hatchet. As the soldier fumbled with his pants, Crazy Horse threw the hatchet, the edge burying itself in the man’s chest.

  The woman scrambled to get away and Crazy Horse ignored her as he retrieved his hatchet. She was soiled by the white men and of no use any more. He pulled the hatchet out of the man’s chest just as a nearby soldier spotted him and raised a cry of alarm. Crazy Horse ran to his horse and bounded on top of it.

  *****

  Bouyer had had Crazy Horse in
his sights almost the entire time he rode down the bluff. He’d lost him as he entered the trees along the bottom; but he spotted the warrior as he came around the tree and fired at the soldier. As Crazy Horse jumped off his horse, Bouyer started to pull the trigger, but he forced himself to stop. This was not the time. Bouyer had seen what the soldiers were doing.

  As the alarm was raised. A detail of about twenty men on the western end, led by a major, charged after Crazy Horse. The soldiers disappeared around a bend, hot in pursuit. Bouyer felt Crazy Horse’s essence moving away, and he felt a brief moment of pity for the soldiers chasing him.

  The pity was gone as Bouyer turned and walked through the camp. Every Cheyenne body Bouyer passed had been scalped. Many were mutilated. A,s he came around the edge of a lodge, Bouyer, who didn’t think he could be any more disgusted, was shocked to see u. soldier laying on top of the body of a squaw, violating her even though she was dead and scalped. Bouyer rushed up and kicked the man. The soldier scrambled to get his pants up, cursing at Bouyer.

  “She don’t care none,” the man protested.

  Bouyer drew his hatchet and laid the fine edge against the soldier’s neck. The man’s eyes went wide. “You won’t either m a second, if you don’t get the hell away from here.”

  The soldier scuffled away, yelling “Indian lover” over his shoulder. Bouyer looked down at the violated body. She was in her teens, blood covering her face, indicating she’d still been alive when she was scalped. He grabbed a nearby blanket and covered her, knowing the gesture was futile.

  Bodies were being stacked like cordwood along the edge of the river as officers tried to get a count. Bouyer saw few warriors among the dead, mostly women and children. He glanced at the sun. It had not taken long. Perhaps thirty minutes. Having spent years on the frontier, Bouyer was used to death and violence, but he’d never experienced anything quite like what he had just seen. The band was playing a waltz now, of all things.

  Bouyer reached his horse. He tentatively reached out and touched the bag holding the crystal skull, but there was no heat being projected by it. He pulled himself up into the saddle. Custer was organizing the regiment to withdraw to the east.

  As Bouyer rode up, one of the officers was protesting the quick retreat. “Sir, Major Elliot and a patrol is still out chasing down some warriors.”

  “Elliot can catch up with us on the march,” Custer said.

  Another officer, the one named Benteen, held his ground. “Sir, Elliot is upriver. There are other villages up there, and he might be in trouble.”

  Custer stared hard at Benteen. “Captain, I command this regiment, and as long as I do, you will do as I say. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Custer put the spurs to his horse and rode off, the rest of the regiment falling into line behind him.

  Bouyer followed. Pausing as he reached the crest of the bluff. He looked back at the village. Bodies were stacked like logs, and acrid smoke blew across the black and red stained snow.

  Crazy Horse was upriver, leading the soldiers on. Of that, Bouyer had no doubt.

  He also had no doubt that this was just the prelude. He would meet his brother again, and Custer would be a part of it. And the battle would be very different than what had happened today. Bouyer turned and headed after the cavalry.

  *****

  Crazy Horse waved at the first warriors coming down river, indicating for them to turn and head back the way they had come. They hesitated, then followed his orders, which surprised him as he was not of their tribe. It was a curious situation as Crazy Horse negotiated the turns of the Washita. He could hear the soldiers behind, and in front of him was a growing cluster of warriors, most looking over their shoulders, wondering why he was directing them away from where they had heard the gunfire.

  Two miles from Black Kettle’s village Crazy Horse signaled to the warriors in front of him, spreading his hands to both sides and then pointing up. Like water into sand, the warriors dispersed and disappeared into the brush on either bluff. Crazy Horse passed through the kill zone and halted his horse. He turned, facing downstream.

  A soldier appeared, pushing his horse hard, then others right behind him. The soldier fired at Crazy Horse, the bullet coming nowhere close. The cluster of soldiers charged toward Crazy Horse, eager for the kill. Crazy Horse put the rifle to his shoulder and fired, knocking the point man off his horse. At that shot, more than two hundred warriors rose and fired bullets and arrows at the soldiers from above on both sides of the riverbed. A half-dozen blue coats were hit immediately. The officer in charge screamed orders, and the surviving soldiers dashed to the south side, where the bank was wider, and threw themselves on their bellies in the waist-high grass. They fired wildly, most without aiming.

  The men who had been so brave killing women and children huddled in the high grass like cowards, dying as arrows and bullets rained down on them. Crazy Horse didn’t bother to fire his rifle again. He stood in the open, watching.

  It was over in less than five minutes. All the blue coats were dead. The warriors swept down, scalping and mutilating the bodies. However, the war leaders of the various tribes who had shown up rode over to Crazy Horse and silently gathered around him.

  Looking at the tribes represented. For the first time Crazy Horse felt a glimmer of hope. If they could come together like this in the spur of a moment, what could they accomplish with · more time?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE SPACE BETWEEN

  Amelia Earhart knelt at the edge of the Inner Sea and waited. Taki stood behind her. Naga staff in hand, eyes scanning the shore in both directions. Valkyries rarely ventured anywhere but between their cave and the portals, but one never knew.

  Taki didn’t ask why they had come here. As a samurai in training in fourteenth-century Japan, he had quickly learned one never questioned orders. He had been onboard a ship off tile coast of Japan when they were caught in a terrible storm. They were adrift, out of sight of land for more than a week before a strange mist appeared, enveloping their ship. That was the last Taki remembered of the world he had known.

  When he awoke he was on this same shore and that is all he and the other samurai from the ship had known since. There were several, people who spoke strange languages already here, and Earhart had arrived not long afterward. Her ability to speak Japanese and organize the group had earned her the loyalty of the samurai and Taki in particular. His last master in Japan had been a woman, the widow of his lord, and he felt serving Earhart was as close as he could come to performing his sworn duty while trapped here.

  Duty was all Taki could focus on as he did not understand this place, the strange creatures in white called Valkyries, or the black columns Earhart called portals. Duty and fealty he understood; they were traits that superseded place and time for him.

  Taki’s attention was drawn to the inner sea as he heard a splash. A dolphin swam up near the shore, right in front of Earhart. She waded out. Placed her hand on the dolphin’s forehead, and closed her eyes. The two remained still for several moments before Earhart removed her hand and walked back to Taki. With a thrust of its powerful tail, the dolphin headed back out into the Inner Sea.

  “We must prepare for visitors,” Earhart said.

  “Friendly or enemy?”

  “Friendly.”

  “How?”

  “Come with me.”

  THE PRESENT

  The land was dying. Birds were the first to succumb to the invisible wave of death carried by the air. Their carcasses littered the landscape. The next to die were the animals, both domestic and wild. Cattle sickened and expired in their pens, while wildlife, somehow knowing the threat, tried desperately to run ahead of the radioactive cloud, but exhaustion eventually slowed them and the inexorable cloud caught them.

  The edge of the radioactive discharge from Chernobyl had now spread more than two hundred miles from the nuclear power plant. Kiev, not far to the south, was a ghost town, the inhabitants fleeing ahead of
the invisible death. Minsk, to the north, was in a panic as residents’ overwhelmed limited transportation in their dash to evacuate. Four hundred fifty miles to the northeast. Scientists monitored wind patterns as the government tried to figure out what to do. They could keep evacuating those in the path of the radiation, but how far could they keep running? Where would the people go? How would they survive? And what of the reports of the ozone depletion in the southern hemisphere? Were they just delaying the inevitable? Trading one kind of radiation death for another?

  *****

  The first humans to experience the inevitable fate of the rest of the world were the handful of scientists working at McMurdo Station on the Ross Ice Shelf in Antarctica. They had been studying the hole in the ozone layer for years, ever since the smallest hole had opened in 1972 over Antarctica, and they had revisited every summer.