by Leo Champion
Norris fired his launcher, not being too careful where the backblast went. The rocket streaked toward an armored car.
The Feds and the Imperials approved of this; Danhauer wouldn’t have gone into combat without that solid assurance from Captain Atchison. The Feds probably approved only because the Imperials said so - nobody in Nebraska had any doubt who was in charge there - but nobody cared much, because rumor had the Imperials telling the Feds to back out of Nebraskan affairs a few times, too.
“Got that one!”said Norris, pumping a fist in the air.
Yes. An armored car was on fire, men bailing out; riflemen and a machine-gun from Danhauer’s barricade opened fire on them, and at least one didn’t get very far after he’d hit the flat, cover-less ground.
Other SS vehicles returned fire, and Danhauer shoved his deputy back into cover as a fusiliade went over his head.
“Of course,” said Norris, breathing hard, “don’t need a rocket launcher to set something on fire; I can start a fire by rubbing two ice cubes together!”
“Shut the fuck up,” Danhauer said, “and fight.”
High above the fight, Ferrer watched tiny vehicles circling, minuscule explosions blooming. Pirates seemed to be mobbing the three brightly-colored airships, while the big Imperial one kept its focus against what seemed to be the SS’ main drive to pass north of Dodge.
I’m fucked. I’ve been working with a lot of asshole criminals and I’m fucked. I made a mistake, I’m not going to change the world like this or even get a comfortable retirement, and that psychopath Marko is probably going to kill me when I’m no longer useful.
Yeah. Well, he could do something about that now, couldn’t he.
And perhaps he could make amends for that poor kid he’d killed, for the part he’d played in killing others.
Resolved. He got up, checked his gun. Work to do.
He’d always been comfortable with work.
Second Lieutenant ‘H’ Jones waved the cowboy hat in the air; the rancher had given it to him, saying if he was going to be doing cowboy’s work, he ought to be wearing at least some of a cowboy’s outfit.
Cattle running everywhere at this point; he and his men had the role of keeping as many of them pointed east - now, northeast, to interfere with the heavy armor’s movements - as possible.
In the other hand to his hat was the stun device, which didn’t stun cattle but worked magnificently to inflict a bit of pain without actually hurting them, to keep them moving.
A couple of big bulls had gotten a bit tired, had stopped to snack on some brush. With his knees Jones steered his horse toward them, zapped one on the rump with the taser. Then on the flank, aiming them in front of a SS Tiger II wheeling around.
The Tiger II’s main gun fired - up at one of the circling-everywhere pirate airships. This airship was a bad excuse for a semi-dirigible blimp, a few hydrogen sacs held in place with netting, crude engine belching black steam as one of the pirates threw high-explosive grenades down.
The shell missed and one of the pirates yelled something, hurled three grenades at the tank. One hit, bouncing off the light roof armor - the tank was zipped up, most of them were by now against the sheer volume of fire coming from above and around - and doing no apparent harm except for - when the smoke cleared - trashing the coaxial gun.
And maybe doing something through the driver’s visual slit, because the tank stopped - got going again after fifteen or twenty seconds, but maybe that was the time it took to get a dead or wounded man out of the driver’s seat.
Jones slapped his cowboyhat against the horse’s flank, kneed the animal toward a couple more cattle that had slowed down, charging the taser again.
“Ride `em, cowboy!” he yelled, as one of his men passed by.
Inside Marko’s cabin, in one of the evil clown’s bags of tricks, Ferrer had found what he was looking for - two of them, in fact, with the appropriate accessories. Guilt at invading the space was mitigated by anger, not only at Marko but at himself, for being drawn into this murderous scheme to hurt how many innocent people, people just like him, people just as fucked by the corporations as him.
“Ooooh jeez,” came a voice from behind.
Rienzi was standing in the doorway. Ferrer couldn’t keep the guilty look off his face, couldn’t pretend for a moment that he was legitimately in the cabin.
Fear rose through him, but he’d been terrified before. It was controllable.
“You are going to be so fucked,” Rienzi smirked. “Marko is going to cut your fucking lungs out when he learns you’ve been going through his shit.”
“You like to kill people,” said Ferrer, keeping the fear down. Engaging the incompetent psychopath on his own terms, something told him, was a bad idea.
But some men you couldn’t reason with.
“Maybe I’ll get to kill you,” said Rienzi.
“Maybe you will,” said Ferrer. “Draw.”
“What the fuck?”
“I said draw, quick boy,” said Ferrer, and drew his own gun.
Rienzi was reaching for his when Ferrer shot him - once, twice in the chest, and then, as the body fell, once again in the head because he only thought Rienzi had neglected his kevlar.
That murderous little punk had bragged about how much fun killing people was, Ferrer thought as he picked up one of Rienzi’s boots and pulled the body into their cabin. Shoved it under the lower bunk. The murderous little punk had talked constantly about how enjoyable it was to end lives, and it had disgusted Ferrer from the start.
But under certain circumstances, the engineer had to admit, the act could have a certain satisfaction to it.
Skorzeny pointed from his armored car. “That looks like the weak point,” he gestured to Schierbecker. “Signalman, flash that to the Fuhrer. Everything directed at that point.”
The point in question was a cluster of ranch buildings about two miles north of the Dodge city line, where industry met plains quite sharply. A unit of pirate troops - the Lakota battle standard indicated what type of a unit, hit-and-run guerilla raiders who kept the Feds off their land by hitting supply lines and long-range raiding of logistical points, not farmers used to defending fixed positions.
That was evident by how they’d relied on the - now trashed wreckage - buildings for cover, hadn’t thought to dig much in the way of anti-tank defenses. The position bristled with anti-tank guns and rocket launchers, but it wouldn’t withstand a concerted attack; a company of Tigers would crush it easily, let alone the division. That would open a gap, but…
The SS wasn’t used to this kind of fighting. The simple reality was that they were a counterguerilla force, not a conventional armored unit, and their thirty years of institutional experience had been primarily against Klan-type irregulars; the last really organized action had been the fighting around Raleigh in 1944, nineteen years ago.
As if to confirm his thoughts, another Tiger went up in flames, hit by that monster of a stolen-back Imperial ship that seemed to have an endless supply of missiles for pouring in.
This was going bad fast. The SS was reeling and Heinrich was kidding himself if he thought they still had much of a chance.
He said as much to Schierbecker, who nodded. Wouldn’t do for a promising young first lieutenant to agree too loudly with any criticism of his Fuhrer, even if it was the Fuhrer of an organization being steadily destroyed.
“Fuhrer says he’ll try,” said the signalman. Skorzeny could see Himmler’s command group and, yes, red-tinted flashes - the filters meant certain commanders, the red meant priority to all commanders - said that he was directing attention.
Nobody seemed to be listening.
Tell him that if he doesn’t try harder, Skorzeny thought but didn’t say, he may as well not bother.
“That’s the command group,” said Martindale. “See the signal propagation, the repeaters?”
“See the black airship right above them, holding station and repeating?” asked Ahle. The last of Cordova’s A
rmadillos, Commodore Cordova himself. A ship the equal of 4-106, and less damaged from the fighting. Burning wreckage around the path of the command group had shown why everyone in the sky had learned to keep a very, very wide berth.
“See him go down, then,” said Perry. Ahle wanted to engage the SS commander directly, wanted that more than anything else, and it was time to give the pirate what she wanted. Not to mention the tactical benefit: cut the head off, and the rest of the snake might just give up.
“I get to engage? Do we turn to engage him?” Ahle asked eagerly.
“Weapons?”
“Sir?”
“Hold fire. We’re loading up for the black one.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Helm? Turn to engage as desired.”
“Aye sir,” said Ahle.
“We’re getting flashed,” said Judd’s signalwoman aboard the Ruby Red Robber. “SS commander says he wants a ride out. That Imperial bird’s engaging his air support and he’s no longer comfortable. Wants to direct the battle from up here.”
“As he should have been all along,” said McIlhan.
“They didn’t expect such a fight. Wouldn’t have one if not for that fucking Imperial son of a bitch who should be dead like the Kennedys,” said Marko. “Punk.”
“It safe to go down and get them?” asked Ferrer. So far the Robber had been mostly unmolested, well above the fight at nine thousand feet relative, because the pirate horde was clearly dedicated to stopping the SS. A couple of venturesome attempts had been beaten off with the ship’s defensive rockets, although a couple of pesky idiots were circling at a distance.
I’ll enjoy cutting your cowardly throat, thought Marko. Although maybe he’d just let the fucker outlive his usefulness, with another couple of slashed-up banknotes to remind the weak who was strong.
“This ship’s fast,” said Judd. “We’ll nip down, pick up Himmler and Dietrich and a couple of their people.” He began issuing orders; dropping heat, the airship began to descend.
Below, Marko could see 4-106 exchanging rocket volleys with Cordova’s black Lone Star, other pirates taking advantage of the opportunity to circle in and nip at the heels of the Armadillo commander. That battle would last a few minutes, at least.
Then something - no, two somethings, in close succession - exploded inside the Ruby Red Robber.
The ship’s rapid descent stopped. Reversed.
The little pirate in crimson cursed, turned the wheel. Shouted orders.
“Steering’s gone, totally gone, boss!” someone shouted back. “And-”
“And buoyancy control’s gone, too, you don’t need to tell me that!” Judd yelled. “Get a repair team to fix it, then!”
One of the bridge crew dashed off. Followed by Ferrer.
Good, make yourself useful, thought Marko. “Fucking logic man.”
Eight-inch rockets punc hed into 4-106, exploding invisible geysers of helium. 4-106’s rockets pounded back, producing torrents of fire that riggers dashed to put out. Burning hydrogen sacs filled the air. Below them the SS had turned to laager, their assault halted; some individuals had broken south amidst the stampeding cattle, running already for the Texas border where they’d be safe. A lot of people seemed to simply be watching the duel between 4-106 and the Lone Star.
Which 4-106 was winning, but barely. Lone Star’s crew really was as good as the Texan media had made them out to be, thought Perry.
Almost up to Imperial standards.
Ferrer came back onto the bridge as the Ruby Red Robber continued soaring up into the air. Feigning panic, although in actuality strangely calm; the bombs he’d taken from Marko’s supply had been placed exactly as they should have been, gone off exactly when they were supposed to do. One thing with engineering, you always knew how proper components would act.
Marko bought his feigned panic. One thing with people, he’d learned from that psychopath; they always saw what they expected to.
“Steering completely gone,” he reported.
“Shit!” Judd snarled.
“Buoyancy too. And we’re on fire.”
Rising up, ten thousand feet or so relative now, and - yes, the ship began to list sideways and drop.
“Then we bail,” said Marko. “Fight again another day.”
“I got us parachutes,” said Ferrer, eagerly - but not too eagerly. Handed one over.
Marko strapped it on. Judd and the other crew were already wearing theirs; the signalwoman pushed open the downward-facing door of the airship, which was now tilting at almost a forty-five degree angle, and hurled herself out.
Judd followed.
“What are you waiting for?” asked Marko, heading for the door. “Let’s get the fuck out to Texas.”
Lone Star tilted sideways, sideways and up, making her cabin vulnerable to 4-106 as she descended. Flasher signals W-F, W-F, W-F came from the fore station - its aft had been destroyed - and someone waved a white flag from the bridge.
“Nolan, general broadcast,” said Perry. “Armadillo is now a captured enemy and will be treated with mercy.”
“And what do we do?” Ahle asked.
“Weapons? Ship is now under helm command.”
Ahle’s teeth bared.
“Weapons,” she said. “See that cluster of SS vehicles in the center of their laager? The command IIb in particular?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
“Destroy it.”
A moment later, two thirds of a dozen rockets lanced out at the center of the fomation. Only eight of 4-106’s launchers remained functional, after the hard fight with the Armadillos.
Only three of their rockets hit Heinrich Himmler’s command tank.
Only one would have been needed.
In freefall, maybe ten feet apart, the air whooshing deafeningly around them as the Ruby Red Robber fell past behind Marko, Ferrer shouted to the anarchist.
“Thought you’d appreciate the parachute-”
“Cowardice has its uses!” Marko grinned back.
Ferrer continued: “Like I appreciated my pay!”
It took Marko a moment to comprehend.
Horror on his face, turning to a snarl as he desperately pulled the ripcord.
The parachute cloth unfurled - as torn and slashed shreds of fabric, a few of them crudely re-sewn together like Ferrer’s money had been. Fabric confetti spreading into the air above him.
Ferrer grinned.
“You fucker.”
Even then, Marko almost made it. Snarling and yelling and somehow pushing against the air, he flipped toward Ferrer, who yanked his ripcord reflexively.
His parachute blossomed open above him, arresting his fall with a sharp yank. Marko seemed to drop past him.
Twisting and contorting desperately, he screamed all the way down.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Refoundation Day: 23rd April, 1909.
Not coincidentally the accepted death-date of St. George, Patron Saint of England, Refoundation Day is the day the Union Jack rose again over London as Parliament and the Royal Family officially returned after nineteen years of exile.
Although unofficial efforts had begun almost as soon as the notional street fighting of the Imperial Return had ended, London began to be rebuilt, and would soon take her place again as a world capital of commerce and culture.
The surviving leaders of the Communes, amnestied months earlier, were officially pardoned in return for their re-pledging loyalty to the restored Crown…
From The Imperial Almanac: A Primer for Young Boys and Girls.
The SS was fleeing. On foot - the parachute had been steerable but not very - Ferrer picked his way through the destroyed armored cars and milling cattle to where Marko had hit the ground. There was money in that greatcoat of his, a lot of money, and Ferrer intended to have some of it. The pay he’d been promised, at the very least.
His gun was drawn, but still he didn’t see the steam-bicycle until it was coming to a halt five feet away. Skorzeny swung his big body
off the pillion, over the sidecar, and smiled. His assistant Schierbecker looked on, his pistol not quite drawn. Skorzeny’s was.
Ferrer took half a step back and angled himself to where he figured he could take at least the Special Squadrons colonel down, if not his aide.
“It seems we have about the same idea regarding his operating funds,” said Skorzeny, eyeing the tattered remains of Marko’s parachute. It was a prettier sight than the splattered remains of the man.
“Maybe we do,” said Ferrer evenly. He eyed the bike’s sidecar. “And maybe you can solve a problem. Half of it, if you can get me out of here.”
“There’s three of us; three shares,” said Skorzeny, while Schierbecker looked on. “You get a third and your ride.”
Ferrer angled his gun hand slightly more toward Skorzeny. He didn’t want a fight and a third was plenty, but he was done taking shit from people.
“You guys can split sixty percent,” he countered. “And you get it out, give it to me. I’ll mind it until we’re somewhere safe we can count.”
A wide grin broke across Skorzeny’s face. “Or you’ll take a knife to my parachute, huh, engineer?”
“Maybe I will,” said Ferrer. “If you cheat me.”
“Forty-sixty if I get it out,” said Skorzeny. “I’ll deal with that.”
He bent into the jellified mess that had been Theron Marko’s long coat. The grin left his face for a moment, but came back when he dug out the wallet and tossed it at Ferrer, who caught it with his free hand.