Screw it. The truth it is.
“We want to go home, honored Yannis,” Harry replied. “My man and I were stolen not only from our land but from our time by the masters of the Kulsians, whom we call the Ktor. Our families believe us dead. Our country—our tribe—has forgotten our memory and my sons’ sons do not know my name. If getting back to our home means helping the SpinDogs, means helping you, means killing every Kulsian on this planet, then we fight.”
There was a pause as Yannis digested Harry’s reply.
“And how do you propose to help us fight the forces of the Suzerain?” he asked finally. “You are but two, even if you have weapons from the stars. You have no boats, no airships.”
The initial orbital surveys had confirmed SpinDog intelligence regarding surface logistics. Harry already knew that as a matter of control, the satraps, including the local J’Stull, largely forbade convoys of ground vehicles, whether mechanized or animal powered. They did operate lighter-than-air, semi-rigid dirigibles and boats, giving them a tremendous advantage and allowing them to dictate terms to both of their less-well-equipped vassals, as well as any barbarian who decided to contest the balance of power.
“We know the Reavers, as you call them, are already here in small numbers,” Harry said. “They, and the Kulsians, are preparing the way for many more. They ready their ground vehicles.”
He noted Yannis’ puzzled squint at the new term. “Wagons and carts which move themselves, equipped with weapons like these, and larger. They can carry more than any ten whinnies and need to be tended by only a few warriors. If we can take them, we deny their use to the Suzerain. The Sarmatchani can use them instead, becoming swift, able to strike in many places quickly, as though you were far greater in numbers.”
“Hmm.” Yannis was skeptical. “Volo has told us he can ask for help only once from his friends over our heads, and that only if he can report a success. The J’Stull are many and there are many vassals like them. Even a small stone town like Chorat has half a hundred warriors, and again as many militia. And then there are the Reavers, who will have weapons which shoot fire and lightning. You ask much of my people.”
“We can teach your fighters new ways of war,” Harry answered. “If you can persuade more of your tribes to join us, our numbers will be enough to take the war wagons when we, and not the enemy, choose the time and place of battle. And I ask no more of them than myself.”
“I admire your courage, Ha-Ree, and I can see something of your character. Yet you’ve already lost your clan, as you’ve said. If you lose here, you forfeit only a hope of seeing your own world. If the Sarmatchani fail in battle, we lose everything.”
“One can lose a battle and keep fighting, honored Yannis,” Harry countered, leaning forward. “If your clan loses hope, then all is lost. Consider this: Your people understand that the approach of the second sun and the enemies it brings will kill many and drive the survivors from your lands. If the stories are true, and they are, then the Scorching will leave the Sarmatchani to fall so far that your children will struggle for years to regain even as much as you already have. Does my offer of an alliance offer any more danger than that?”
Yannis looked at him and didn’t reply for a long time.
Finally, he placed his hands on his knees and said, “How shall we persuade my fellow chiefs to fight when hiding is what has allowed us to survive, so far?”
“What if, instead of having to begin afresh as the second star recedes, your people could begin from where you stand now?” Harry asked in turn, holding up a clenched fist before opening it slowly, as though presenting a gift. “And what if you could shelter as the satraps do? How many more Sarmatchani children would grow to adulthood to serve the clan?”
Harry smiled. “Besides, everyone loves a winner, Yannis. There is a saying among my people, from a warrior-poet who died long before I was born: ‘It’s loot, loot, loot, that makes the boys stand up and shoot.’ Let us show the Sarmatchani and the other tribes just what winning looks like.”
* * * * *
Chapter Sixteen
R’Bak
“Remember, we want them low enough so we can reach them with this,” Harry said, patting the shrouded contraption in the whinnie-drawn cart. “But not so low they actually hit you. You’re just the decoy.”
“I can wiggle better than a Saigon cola girl trying sell you a short time,” Rodriguez answered cheerfully, using English.
“Marco, English or Ktoran. Pick one, not whatever grunting noises you doggies use among yourselves.”
“Bait, El-Tee,” the noncom replied in Ktoran as he strode to the small group of Sarmatchani waiting for him. He waved a hand over his head in a tight circle, signaling to Grevorg to get a move on. “We’ll be the bait the gasbag can’t pass up. You just make sure not to miss.”
“Hell, I’m an officer, and you know what good shots we are!” Harry jibed back, covering his own tension in the time-honored manner.
“Not helping, El-Tee!” Rodriguez threw the last comment over his shoulder as he reached the front of the small decoy group.
There wasn’t any more to be said. Harry and the Special Forces sergeant had rehashed the plan each day of their march. The daily message bursts relayed through the satellites had generated replies from Murphy and the planning cell with the SpinDogs. Their critically important updates made the plan possible. There wasn’t a lot of room for error. Of course, that wasn’t a new factor, not on this op.
Rodriguez had the easier, but clearly more dangerous of the two objectives. Once Harry had persuaded Yannis, the tribe had moved higher into the low mountains ringing the desert, drawing closer to the commerce routes used by the satrap’s gatherers to trade with Chorat. During breaks in the march and after the evening meal, Rodriguez had trained up a few of the fleetest tribesmen. His decoy group was now armed with all three of the tribe’s precious breech-loading rifles.
Their projectiles were hand-loaded conical bullets, which were crammed forward into the barrel by the action of closing the breech, and propelled by a limited supply of paper-wrapped black powder cartridges. The nearly prehistoric weapons had been looted during successful skirmishes against the satrap’s own bands of hunters. The rifles had limited range and also created a very large cloud of smoke with each shot. Against like opponents, the Sarmatchani employed them no differently than the long bows with which most of the tribe were equipped, which was to say, as part of a general skirmish line. Harry could tell this offended Rodriguez’s professional instincts, and the noncom had enthusiastically introduced the basics of coordinated fire and maneuver.
“What does the name he used mean?” Stella asked curiously. She was standing with the rest of the clan, watching the decoy group head toward a convenient gorge. Around them, the land was rock, mostly bare of vegetation. “What is ‘el-tee’?”
“It’s my rank in our clan,” Harry answered. He’d become more accustomed to the local dialect, and now understood some of the vernacular more completely. “I’m a warband leader among my people.”
“And you made a death-joke, yes?” she asked. “You laugh, but the smile doesn’t reach your eyes.”
“I did make a small joke, as a way to acknowledge his bravery,” Harry explained. “He knows the danger to his group, and he accepts it, so I offered a joke suggesting the danger was even higher. It’s a way to acknowledge his bravery without embarrassment.”
“Yes, we do much the same thing,” Stella said without particular emphasis. “But the danger is great. The Kulsian’s skyboat is untouchable. My brother’s life means much to me and our tribe. My father’s honor means even more. If your plan squanders either, you’ll answer to me.”
Harry knew he should be more used to Stella’s casual threats, which were offered pretty much at the end of every other conversation he had with her. With the ease of practice, he dismissed his irritation and focused on the implications of her words. He’d asked the Sarmatchani to extend a huge measure of trust, after all.<
br />
The local vassal of the Suzerain patrolled his territory and maintained order using what the tribes considered to be terrifying displays of power. In truth, the technology was no better than what could be found on 19th century Earth. Spectral analysis from the Dornaani suggested the riverboats used wood-, coal-, and kerosene-fired steam engines at an efficiency level barely sufficient enough to buck the strongest river currents. The few semi-dirigibles which patrolled the most important trade routes and borders were limited in payload and speed. However, to a tribe whose movement was entirely limited by how fast they could hike, the Kulsian’s technology was awesome, and like the aeroshells which had delivered Harry’s team, it represented a magic they couldn’t hope to match. All the Sarmatchani clans recognized and resented the impossible advantages conferred by the somewhat common boats and much rarer airships.
Harry knew it, and was counting on it, in fact. En route, the initial band of Sarmatchani had been joined by representatives from neighboring groups. In order to get them to observe Harry’s operation at close quarters, Yannis had spent political capital like water, using a mixture of promises of spoils blended with accusations of cowardice. Nearly all had agreed, though they were more cautious than his band, and so would stand off and watch from farther away.
“The skyboat is nothing more than fabric, wood, and a little metal,” Harry explained. He’d repeated his explanation every day, but the tribe only followed his instruction because of Yannis’ command. “Like you, they think their machines are untouchable. They won’t expect our surprise. When they lose their precious gasbag, they’ll grow more fearful of the Sarmatchani and your tribe will gain much status.”
“I hear your words,” Stella said, glancing at him before letting her eyes follow the dwindling figures of the decoy group as they marched toward the lower of the two morning suns. “My lance waits to believe. So, now lead me to the place my father has selected for this folly.”
* * *
Harry swept the horizon for the target. Below the rim of the shallow canyon, the decoy group was gathered around a fire, enjoying their afternoon. Harry’s first job was simple. The main group would see the airship first, by virtue of their higher vantage point. Then Harry would instruct another to signal those below.
“The breeze is light, as you hoped,” Yannis observed, lying next to Harry, covered by a dirt-colored hide which lay across them both, smooth-side up. Harry recognized the blue-black fur from his encounter with the batangs, as the Sarmatchani called the creatures he’d encountered early on. This must have been an even larger specimen whose skin comfortably spanned both men as well as Volo, who lay on Harry’s other side.
“Second Spin updated the forecast, and winds should remain low,” the SpinDog offered. “The message stated the target remains on schedule as of the last satellite pass, a few hours past.”
“Thanks, Volo,” Harry answered. The satellites had been tracking the surface activity for weeks, even prior to the drop, and the schedule of the boats and airships was consistent. The younger man had seemed content to allow Harry to lead so far. He’d relayed all of their requests for information without complaint and had offered useful ideas which had speeded the construction of the new weapon. “The less wind, the more confident the crew of the dirigible will be,” Harry continued.
For a time, they lay quietly, the light breeze rippling along the edge of their covering. Harry left the men to his left and right to their own thoughts. Abruptly, he realized he hadn’t thought about Sara for two days. Maybe more.
Even when she’d been angry with him, Sara would listen to his rants, pick apart his rationalizations, and generally help him be a better person. He’d been so wrapped up in this op he’d not realized how much he missed it.
Get busy, forget your wife. What an asshole I am.
Of course, she always said as long as I was in the field, that’s where my head needed to be. Just leave the field behind when you come home.
Home.
Harry tried not to think about home for a while and didn’t check his Casio until Yannis bumped his hip.
“There.”
Sure enough, the oblong shape of a dirigible was edging around the point, a few klicks away. Harry kicked Volo’s ankle, and the SpinDog used a mirror to flash the campfire below, soliciting a flash in response. Invisible to them, Harry knew the decoy team would then use their mirror to “give away” their position to the oncoming airship.
He studied it through his monocular as it grew closer.
The main component was a blunt-nosed fabric cylinder more than a hundred meters long. It was dyed a rust color and tapered from front to back. The semi-rigid vehicle was encased and shaped by a grid of heavy ropes, like a coarse fishing net. Around the midsection or waist of the bag, and integrated into the net, ran what looked like a light gray metal frame, possibly aluminum. The rear of the frame supported control surfaces, built kite-style in a cruciform shape. Dwarfed by the bag, and hanging beneath it, was a long, mostly enclosed gondola with actual portholes lining the sides. It seemed to be at least head-high and from the canoe-shaped stern was hinged a huge wooden-framed, fabric rudder. An exhaust stack projected to starboard, trailing a blue-black haze, presumably from the power plant which was kept well separated from the lift bag above. The motive force was provided by two propellers, whose nacelles were hung from the midships rail. It took Harry a moment to figure out they were running on belt or chain drives leading toward the motor section.
Abruptly, the nose of the ship shifted as the craft changed course, steering directly toward the decoy team.
Excellent. It was time for Rodriguez to wriggle. Right on time, one of the Terran’s few ground flares ignited below, the red actinic glare visible even in broad daylight. Nothing in the hands of the tribesmen should burn so brightly, and Harry had calculated the anomaly would draw the craft even closer. Sure enough, it began to descend, approaching the level of the canyon rim where the assault team was hidden.
Harry felt his own excitement build as the parts of his plan came together.
“Yannis, ensure the wagon teams keep the covers on till the last moment,” Harry whispered, not taking his eyes off the approaching target. Nothing must give away the ambush until the craft was deep inside his range, even as they thought themselves above the range of bows or captured rifles. It descended a bit more, sinking below the lip of the canyon.
Harry saw the first puff of muzzle smoke from the decoy group as they opened fire. A second and a half later, the sound reached Harry. A second puff, then a third. The airship slowed and began to yaw, and movement was visible inside the control compartment. A few more moments, and a corresponding puff of smoke, though smaller in size, bloomed from the gondola. A much sharper report sounded. Then another and another, until there was an intermittent crackling as the gunners on the ship ruthlessly took advantage of their height.
The gunfight was just like a rock fight in a well, only it was Harry’s team on the downside. Only two puffs of smoke replied from the ground.
“Now?” Yannis asked, gripping Harry’s elbow. “Now!”
“Not yet,” Harry said. He wanted the ship to lose even more momentum so if he missed, he would have time for a second attempt before the craft ascended out of range.
Anxious moments passed, and Yannis’ grip grew excruciating.
Good enough. Let’s see what Mama Tapper’s boy brought to the party.
“Now!” Harry shouted, and Yannis stood, throwing off the concealing tarp. Harry remained prone and lowered his head to the comb of his M-14, already laid in front of him. He looked for a porthole which might correspond to the pilot, coxswain, whatever, of the airship. Only two hundred yards away, it was nearly at a dead stop, and even as he acquired his sight picture, he noted the rate of fire from the ship had slowed as lookouts spotted the activity taking place behind Harry. That was a good thing, because the decoy team’s fire had dwindled to nothing.
Harry began shooting, punching rifle round
s through the wooden bulkhead of the gondola. Slow, deliberate fire, not faster than one round every two to three seconds. Even without a certain target, his fire would serve to distract the gunners and crew, taking the heat off Rodriguez. After five or six rounds, no more plumes of smoke came from the ship as the rate of enemy fire also dropped to zero, likely in shock. Harry knew his own position would be hard to spot for an enemy accustomed to looking for large blooms of gun smoke. He smiled, imagining the confusion on the airship.
Surprise, motherfuckers. Mr. Murphy would like a word.
Harry couldn’t see behind himself, but he knew Yannis and Volo would be exhorting the gunners to get the camouflage covers off the remaining two wagons as fast as they could. He wondered if the torches were lighting from the smoldering tapers they’d had to keep burning all afternoon as they waited. He could hear the clacking as the loaders spun the cranks, drawing back the massive drawstrings of his “surprises.” Focused on his shooting, he didn’t watch as the improvised Roman-style ballistae, designed and built by the Terrans with considerable and increasingly enthusiastic Sarmatchani wheelwright’s assistance, were trained on the target. It had taken nearly as much effort to persuade Yannis to cannibalize half of his clan’s wagons for the scheme as it had to attempt the effort in the first place.
Volo had already hustled back to the mechanisms. He was in charge of laying the weapons and alternating fire.
Two ballistae. Why? Because two is one and one is none.
A loud TUNG! finally got his attention, and a faint red line arced toward the airship. Amazingly, it tracked true, piercing the bag amidships. Harry waited for a moment, but nothing happened. Both Rodriguez and he had thought hard about the problems of making an incendiary ballista bolt. The SF sergeant, a veteran of myriad booby traps improvised by his Viet Cong enemy, had devised a way to use the burning metal of their red marking flares as a payload that wouldn’t be snuffed out by the speed of the ballista bolt. Harry knew—well, believed—the R’Bak satraps were using hydrogen to generate lift. The Dornaani analysis all pointed one way. However, the airship remained intact. In fact, the ship’s stack belched a pulse of darker exhaust. Someone was belatedly increasing speed.
Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel Page 17