Fateful Lightning

by William R. Forstchen

  “Harpoon!”

  Feyodor stood up, striking the friction match, dropping the board over. Continuing to climb, he aimed for the middle of the Merki ship, passing over it. A gunner was atop this one as well, firing, the shot tearing another hole in the bag.

  “Harpoon away!”

  Jack looked down, groaned as the spear seemed to be heading for the ship and then passed over it, skimming by to one side and continuing on down to the ground.

  Another harpoon dropped past, this one forward. The other Merki ship.

  He continued to pull back on the elevator and the nose rose yet higher, passing through sixty degrees, Feyodor cursing wildly.

  He suddenly saw the bottom of the Merki ship passing overhead, a hundred yards straight ahead. He crouched over the gunsight, lining up. The hell with the range.

  He looked down at the key, swung it to the middle terminal, and pressed down.

  The rocket snapped out, racing forward, then turning on a long graceful arc straight into the ground, exploding just before it hit.

  “Goddamm it, Ferguson!”

  He threw the key to the third terminal and pressed down hard.

  There was another flash. The rocket climbed straight up, less than a second later slamming into the bottom of the Merki ship forward of the cab. Republic continued to climb straight at it, and Jack was tempted to try ramming.

  And then ever so slowly the nose of the ship started to crumple up, and he saw the explosions racing along the top, the hydrogen ignited by the rocket’s going clean through from bottom to top, even though the warhead had failed to explode.

  Jack pushed into a turning corkscrew dive, and as he watched to port, not fifty feet away the Merki ship tumbled down, the screams of the two crew members clearly audible even above the roar of the flames.

  Shaking, he watched as it hit the ground several hundred feet below, one of the two crew actually crawling out of the wreckage, writhing in flames, and then collapsing.

  The third ship was turning back to the north while he continued south, and he shot past it, not fifty yards away.

  The other pilot was clearly visible as they approached, the Merki looking down at the wreckage of the two ships, and then back at Jack.

  And to his astonishment the Merki did not shoot. Instead, he raised his hand almost in defiance, and yet almost in salute to a fellow aerosteamer pilot who had won, and then turned his ship away, heading back to the west.

  “Did you see that?” Jack shouted.

  “Guess he’s had it.”

  “Flying fleets of one to a side,” Jack said. “Maybe he wants to keep it that way.”

  He watched warily, expecting at any moment that the Merki would turn or go into a climb to position himself for another attack. But he continued straight on.

  “Let’s go home and get repaired,” Jack said wearily, aware that he was beginning to shake violently. “The war’s over for today.”

  “They’re coming in.”

  Andrew, who had been dozing in his office, was instantly awake, heading out the door and into the glaring heat of day.

  Eyes gummy, he looked up at the station clock, which miraculously had withstood two days of bombardment, its glass panes still intact.

  Almost eleven. Six hours. Good.

  He crossed the tracks and went up to the line of breastworks. A battery of light four-pounders to his right was kicking into action, adding its weight to the heavy fire of the grand battery that was now going into rapid fire.

  It was difficult to see through the smoke. He raised his field glasses, and trained them on the opposite shore.

  The checkerboard blocks were coming down the opposite slope at the run, the front lines well past the batteries, advanced skirmishers already into the river, the calf-deep water splashing as they crossed it at a slow run.

  He looked back down to the valley. Through the haze he could see several guns being withdrawn to the rear, gunners clinging to the caissons, riders lashing the horses, skirmishers coming up out of the trenches and running for the rear.

  “Any more word from the north?”

  Pat shook his head.

  “Telegraph line’s still down. Last report was that they had two, maybe three regiments across. The rail lines are still cut.”

  “Damn.”

  He ran a quick calculation. Sending Barry’s reserve division back up would strip the line here. Schneid’s entire corps was positioned from a couple of miles north of Hispania all the way down to here and a third of the way out along the ridge, only two regiments pulled to be reserve. Marcus was stretched on the far south and Vincent in the center. The Third and Fourth, both of them shattered, were in the center aboard trains, ready to be shifted.

  Damn.

  “What do you think?”

  “Their mobility’s down,” Pat said meditatively, leaning over the parapet to eject a thin stream of tobacco juice. “Otherwise we’d be in the manure pile. Detach two regiments by train north, and keep the rest of the division here. That’ll still give you eight fresh regiments.”

  Andrew looked back at the advancing host and then turned to a messenger.

  “Send one regiment north from Barry’s corps. Have ’em clear the line.”

  He looked back at Pat.

  “The battle’s here, and here’s where we concentrate. If they cross north we’ll deal with that later.”

  “What about the aerosteamer field, and that other factory of Chuck’s?”

  He hesitated.

  Ferguson was supposed to bring his contraption up today. The damn thing might work, but most likely not. He couldn’t waste more reserves just to try to retrieve it.

  “I can’t spare the men,” Andrew said coldly. “I’ll need every regiment, every battery, right here before this day’s finished.”

  The thunder of battle swelled closer.

  Chuck Ferguson stood in the doorway of his factory, wiping the sweat from his brow, watching as the columns of smoke rose out of the woods.

  “Getting damn close,” Theodor said, coming up to join him.

  He looked back to the rail siding running parallel to the factory. Three long trains were drawn up, crews working feverishly, bolting the frames down, loading the tubes. Not as many as he wanted, but still enough for one damn good shot. He’d soon be ready, but where the hell to go?

  Over by the aerosteamer field a detachment of Merki had burst out of the woods, almost reaching the hangar that held Republic before being gunned down. The fight in the woods was insane confusion. Small detachments of both sides were lost, and sections of the woods were on fire. Most of Barry’s men were assigned to closing the gap to the south of the breakthrough.

  He turned and walked back into the factory.

  The last scrap of powder had been packed this morning, still far short of what he had fantasized, but that was fantasy and now he was staring a harsh reality in the face.

  He was tempted to use it all here, but knew it’d be a waste. All the months of sneaking and planning had been for something far different, and by God he was going to see that it happened that way.

  The long building was almost silent, except for the loading crews, the rest standing by the now-empty lathes and presses; even the steam engine that had powered it all had gone still.

  He walked through the factory and saw them watching him, five hundred men and women.

  “Theodor.”

  “Here, sir.”

  “Go back into the back warehouse. We’ve got fifty Sharps carbines, a couple of dozen pistols, something like two hundred smoothbores, break them out.”

  Theodor looked at him and grinned, shouting for some workers to follow.

  Chuck climbed up on top of a stamping machine.

  “Many of you men got detached from your regiments in Barry’s corps, which is now fighting to the south, so you know soldiering. I want you to take twenty, thirty people, form them into your companies. We’ve worked hard together, now we’re going to fight together.”
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br />   He hesitated.

  “We’ve got something like two hundred and fifty guns, and there’s five hundred of you, men and women. Two people to each gun. When one falls the other can still fight.”

  A defiant cheer went up. He had always wanted a field command, and now he finally had one.

  “Magnificent, grim and magnificent,” Vincent said, lowering his field glasses and looking over at Dimitri.

  Taking off his hat, he raised it over his face to shade his eyes from the glare of the early-afternoon sun. In the plains below, the Merki army continued to deploy out into the open valley. Ten umens, he figured, two of them mounted. Artillery crews were pushing their weapons forward, already into extreme range, forming an arc of over two hundred guns, more still coming across the river, moving slowly, confined to the narrow width of the river that was beyond the range of the grand batteries positioned to the north and south of the arc.

  A faint breeze stirred up from the valley, and he suppressed a gag.

  “Must be a hundred degrees. Those dead bastards are starting to cook,” Vincent said coldly.

  “Imagine what it’s like down there for them.”

  He put his hat back on, pulling the brim low, feeling

  slightly light-headed, his mouth dry. He was tempted to take a drink but decided not to. It was going to be a very long afternoon, the heat would hold, and water would soon be short, even with the cisterns set up behind the line.

  He looked down his line. Again that sense of awe. The men were sitting on the ground, resting, dozing in the heat, the long lines of his three divisions occupying nearly two miles of front, a hundred yards to each regiment. The central grand battery of fifty guns was to his left. He looked over at it, remembering his arrival here only days before. The villa was gone, the limestone blocks now piled up to reinforce the battery position.

  The battery commander stood atop the wall, field glasses trained forward, shouting orders to his gunners, the rifled pieces being aimed to hit the Merki artillery pieces, the Napoleons to be used for the infantry and cavalry when they finally came in.

  The tension was palpable, as if a safety valve had been jammed shut and the pressure within was building and building.

  A battery of horse-drawn Merki artillery started to weave up a narrow lane down in the valley, passing the ruins of a vineyard pressing mill.

  Vincent looked back at the battery. He knew that every landmark within range had been paced out.

  “Fifteen hundred yards!”

  The battery commander leaped down from the bastion, and a second later the first three-inch rifle kicked back, the shell screaming downrange with a high-pitched whine. Vincent trained his glasses forward. The Merki battery, still limbered, continued forward. A puff of smoke detonated to the right of the road next to the mill, long seconds later the distant crack of the exploding shell rolling back over the hill.

  The eleven other rifled guns fired in salvo. Seconds later, shells bracketed the Merki, horses going down, soundless at this range, a caisson igniting, smoke rising up. A cheer rose up from the battery, the men leaping to reload.

  From the north a distant rumble echoed, the northern battery now starting to engage. Vincent slowly moved his field glasses across the field, watching. The infantry was still back, formations coming into line, waiting, their lines building. Guns moving forward, pressing in closer to the ridge. The battery under fire continued forward at the gallop, moving up the road, coming in closer.

  The first rifled piece fired again, this time dropping its shell near the rear of the advance, more horses going down. The front of the battery in column continued, crossing a dry creekbed and then swinging out into line, coming to a stop.

  “Right down their throats!” the battery commander shouted. “A thousand yards!”

  The rifles fired again. Shells detonated like blossoms around the guns, one of them losing a wheel, spinning around. The three surviving pieces unlimbered, gunners working to load.

  Another battery came up the road, swerving to avoid the wreckage of the still-burning caisson. Over in the next field to the south, two more batteries in line abreast came up out of a vineyard, moving forward to support. Guns were now moving up all along the line, spreading outward from the center.

  The first battery to advance finally fired a shot. Seconds later the round slammed into the ground fifty yards short of the grand battery, a plume of earth rising up, the solid ball ricocheting up into the air, passing lower over the battery and on into the rear, the gunners laughing disdainfully even as they fired, dismounting another of the enemy guns.

  The second Merki battery up finally delivered its first shots, rounds screaming in, a shell exploding with a thunderclap a hundred yards forward, the ground churning up from impacting shots falling short.

  The exchange started to flare outward, more and yet more of the Merki guns coming up on line and unlimbering, the arc of fire spreading outward around the valley.

  A shot finally screamed overhead, a shell exploding directly over the grand battery. Screaming wounded were dragged to the rear moments later, the gunners now angrily at their work, as if an insult had been offered.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Vincent turned as Dimitri pointed to three soldiers moving down the line, the uniforms of two of them dark green, the other one wearing a faded blue jacket of the Union Army. Slung over his shoulder was a long rifle, a brass tube glistening atop it.

  The three stopped, pointing down the slope as if arguing, and then moved down to a rifle pit, the men occupying it looking up and moving over. Vincent strolled down to watch.

  “The only other Whitworth we’ve got,” Vincent said with awe.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “The same kind of gun that killed Jubadi.”

  He moved over to the rifle pit. The three soldiers looked up, coming to their feet, saluting, but betraying that at the moment they felt they had better things to do than deal with nosy officers.

  “Patrick O’Quinn, isn’t it?”

  The sniper squinted up at Vincent and smiled.

  “The same it is, and you now a general and me still a private with the old 35th.”

  Vincent shook his head. Dimitri was surprised that Vincent didn’t explode at the tone of insolence from Patrick.

  “If you’d laid off the bottle and the women you’d have made command.”

  Patrick laughed.

  “Some is born to such things, others to being generals. Me, I'd rather be doing this. Old Keane finally found a job I was suited for. Always was the best shot in the regiment, and now I’m killing officers.” He stared at Vincent and smiled. “I like my work.”

  Vincent shook his head and gestured for them to carry on. He squatted down behind the pit to watch.

  An assistant set up a tripod. The gunner rested the muzzle upon it and lay down, bringing the gun to his shoulder squirming slightly.

  “Roll up the blanket and get it under me armpit,” Patrick said, and his assistant pulled a small blanket out of an oversized haversack and tucked it up under Patrick’s right arm, the soldier shifting and settling down.

  The other assistant sat on the ground, knees apart, elbows resting upon them, a telescope in his hands.

  “The one to the right of the first gun on line—I think that’s the bastard.”

  “Stand still, you son of a whore,” Patrick whispered.

  Vincent raised his glasses to watch and saw a Merki on foot, arm up, pointing, obviously shouting, an officer. The Merki turned and moved to the next gun, leaning over to look along its barrel, and then stood back up. A shell detonated behind him, and he ducked.

  “Tell those bastards to stop shooting. They’re ruining me aim,” Patrick snapped.

  The Merki battery commander moved down the line to the next gun, and the instant he stopped, the Whitworth cracked off.

  Vincent sat transfixed, watching. The Merki crouched down slightly, stood back up, and started to turn his head. Then he dou
bled over, collapsing on the ground. The warriors beside him looked at him with astonishment.

  “The fourth damn one today!” Patrick barked.

  Vincent looked over at the man with admiration.

  “A good kill,” he said softly.

  “Kill bloody officers, that’s what Keane wanted, that’s what I’m giving him. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

  Vincent said nothing. He came back up to his feet.

  “Let’s go get the next one,” Patrick announced, rising up and passing the Whitworth over to his assistant. He looked at Vincent and smiled. “Hell, I might even turn out to be as good a killer as the famous Quaker.”

  He laughed crudely, spit a stream of juice on the ground, and continued on down the line, Vincent watching him silently.

  “Son of a bitch,” Dimitri said softly.

  “Never mind,” Vincent replied. “The bastard’s right.”

  He turned and looked back out at the growing battle.

  “Magnificent,” he said softly. “Magnificent.”

  Tamuka Qar Qarth rode along the line, squinting through the smoke. The bombardment was apparently one-sided, the cattle upon the hills having the advantage of height and obviously of skill. Forward he saw several batteries with half their guns smashed or out of action. The two days of bombardment had depleted nearly all the ammunition stocks; he couldn’t maintain this rate of fire much longer. There was another report that was almost as disturbing. One after another, since yesterday, battery commanders were being shot from long distance. Most likely by a murder weapon like the one used by Yuri.

  He kept his distance from the batteries.

  He looked back to the west. From the opposite side of the river the last umen of the spotted black horse was advancing into the river on foot, the midafternoon sun behind it.

  The battle was going too slow, far too slow. Two- thirds of the day wasted by this tedious advance on foot, waiting for guns to be moved, for paths for them to be cleared through the corpses, for infantry to move up, all of it taking far too much time.