Warlord of New York City

by Leo Champion

  Better to have it and not need it…

  “For what we are about to receive…” he heard Captain Karstein mutter under her breath behind him. Then she raised her voice.

  “Company, kneel!”

  “Company kneel!” the sergeants relayed, and Krasner sank to his knees, musket ready and bayonet pointed outwards.

  Suddenly Krasner realized what had happened: there hadn’t been incoming fire for a bit. That meant those three hundred Changs, one hundred of them from their elite companies, were saving it themselves for a concerted volley.

  Probably followed by a rush.

  Shit.

  Krasner’s empty bladder twitched again, to no effect. The piss running down his leg was the least of his problems right now as he stared into the eye-burning white smoke, waiting for shapes to appear.

  Miya, I hope you’re safe. Because I’m pretty sure we’re fucked…

  * * *

  “Major K says bayonets fixed, bracing for impact,” Lieutenant Olivia Thurston reported in the war room. Unprompted with a pair of tongs in each hands, she began dexterously inching the columns of Chang tokens east along Prince Street.

  “Sir,” reported Corporal Adkins, “the last of their barrier balloons is burning and down!”

  “Sir!” Sergeant Ferrara reported, speaking as much into her headset. This call was on her and Marder, and Hammer could only hope that her judgement was as good as the woman he’d promoted on the spot to lieutenant the other day. “First Squadron requests permission!”

  Hammer gave a terse nod. There was nothing to say. Major Karstein knew the drill – he was the one who’d suggested it, but there hadn’t been time to practice except with notebooks and timers at the officer level.

  “Squadron, you are cleared to attack!” Sergeant Mary Ferrara said crisply into her radio mouthpiece.

  “Major,” Hammer said into his own mouthpiece. “Marder has just been cleared. You know what to do.”

  “Good luck,” Colonel Benzi muttered over the radio network himself, standing next to Hammer at the plotting table.

  “Not luck, Benzi,” Major Karstein grunted back. “Like the bossman said – physics.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “The hell’s that?” Billy McKee shouted as something hot exploded behind B Company. There was a lot of screaming, but there’d been screaming ever since the shooting had started. It felt like an hour had passed, of rapid-fire four shots a minute then ducking as the companies lined up behind A and B fired, but Corporal Benny Frick knew from checking his watch that it had only been a few minutes. The air was thick with eye-burning white smoke, however, and Frick knew this was the first real stand-up fighting more than a third of the company had done – it was the first he’d done since the Commune.

  “Eyes front!” Captain Goldblatt shouted. “Ready!”

  “Look!” Billy McKee shouted, pointing up.

  Things were falling. Burning things were falling through the sky toward them!

  “Those are our barrier balloons!” someone shouted, his voice an edge of panic.

  It took the experienced company commander a moment to realize what would be on their heels. The rebels had found a way to neutralize the barrier balloons, which meant coming right after them could be expected…

  “Company - scatter!” the captain shouted, a bit too late.

  There were three hundred men on the street. There was only so far they could scatter, as the first explosions rippled behind them. And into them.

  Frick knew to exhale and throw himself flat as the first blasts rippled, shaking his body.

  * * *

  “Bombs going down,” Marder reported as diIorio, tail-end of the six who’d made the bombing pass over Prince Street and the main Chang force, gave an affirmative over the radio. “Everything went into the right area. Too much smoke to tell more.”

  “Karstein in. We’re advancing. Hold your remaining fire, pigeons,” came a grunted male voice.

  Down below most of Prince Street was white smoke, impossible to make out friend from enemy.

  “Forwards double-time!” the curt male voice of Major Don Karstein came through Marder’s radio network, as Marder banked his glider and headed for his rooftop to reload. He didn’t envy those poor bastards down there.

  “Third flight,” Hammer’s calm voice came – he can afford to be calm, he’s in a fortified building – through the radio network. “Hit them when Hoshi says. Hoshi, you boys ready to do your thing?”

  “Hoshi says we’re more than ready,” Staff Sergeant Beppe’s nervous voice squeaked.

  “On your call, then,” said Justin Canis, and Marder saw the three survivors of the Sky Wolves heading in on their own attack paths, to hit the Chang forces on the East Houston Street free road.

  * * *

  “Fire as you see them!” Captain Karstein ordered Second Company as they double-timed forwards at a speed that amounted to a very rapid walk, boots pounding the scarred tarmac of Prince Street as the task force advanced.

  Advancing? Are we crazy? They outnumber us three to one! Krasner thought, but kept in step. It would be a flogging if he didn’t, and the surviving people on his left and right were… going to go anyway, and he’d be damned if he didn’t do his own part.

  There’d been devastating explosions a few moments ago that they were coming right in on, explosions that continued as the remains of a hundred soldiers advanced through the clouds of eye-burning white gunsmoke.

  “Fire as individuals!” Captain Karstein clarified, right behind Krasner. “Select your targets, fire as individuals, use your bayonets and keep moving!”

  Suddenly, no more than fifteen feet away, men appeared through the clouds. They were sprawled and reeling and a few shots rang out to knock them down again. The ground here was pitted and on fire; the airbornes had dropped loads of napalm too, that burned and disrupted the Chang formations from reforming too quickly.

  A Chang officer with a raised sword appeared, moving forwards at the front of a growing knot of soldiers. Corporal Antonini clapped Krasner on his shoulder and nodded, then fired his musket at the officer. So did Krasner, or at least at the group of men behind him; the officer fell and a moment later the double line of Second Company soldiers moved past him and his failed attempt to rally.

  There was bayonet-stabbing and slashing, and one man threw down his musket and raised his hands, only to take a bayonet through the throat a second later.

  “Take prisoners!” Major Karstein’s voice came. “Squads Roscoe and Delgado, you are responsible for securing the prisoners! To all Changs, your surrenders will be accepted!”

  Men came stumbling out of the smoke with their hands raised.

  “Into the center,” Lieutenant Frusci shouted. “Sergeant Roscoe, secure them!”

  Second Company kept moving forwards, a double line of bayonet-armed soldiers advancing west along Prince Street through the gunsmoke.

  * * *

  Roger Moncreve and X Company, no longer Garsons but Changs now in brand-new red and grey uniforms, had been fighting their way along East Houston Street against what felt like a single company of West Bowery troops who’d preferred to give ground rather than fight too hard. But they’d given way in good order, and Roger had heard from Chang agents that the rebels were known to be arming streetgangers who would be somewhere in the north.

  Roger was a professional; he was not a fool and he knew what a trap looked like. And as his force of First Company survivors, Third Company loyalists who’d faced ground-coordinated airborne bombing before, and miscellaneous sergeants and officers, made their way east with the Changs’ E Company, he shouted cautions: watch the left flank and keep an eye on the sky.

  It hadn’t been entirely to his shock when the barrier balloons over the Chang tenement had caught fire, their tops burning through and blazing gouts of hydrogen exploding from them as the remnants sank burning. He knew what was coming next.

  “Scatter! X and E Companies, scatter!” Mo
ncreve shouted.

  The Chang captain either couldn’t hear or didn’t listen. His men were keeping a tight formation, firing as they advanced. Sniper fire was starting to come down at them from the high buildings to their north, to Moncreve’s left.

  Deafening explosions came from further south, Moncreve’s right. Where the main task force was, and the gunfire redoubled from that direction. He looked up in time to see airbornes coming in on his own force along the free road, bombs starting to fall.

  “In-coming!” he shouted, and threw himself flat.

  * * *

  “So, Fifth Company is still duking it out with two Chang companies across Spring Street,” Ali Benzi summarized. “Lieutenant Haskins is pleading for air support but – we don’t have it. In the north, we’ve confirmed Fourth Company is facing X Company under Roger Moncreve, and the Changs’ E Company. Pushing them back along the free road. Hoshi’s streetgangers are moving in on them – now.

  “And in the center, on Prince Street, Major Karstein reports Second and Third have broken through. The main Chang force is in tatters. He’s assigned two squads to deal with prisoners, because a lot of them are giving up. He begs for reinforcements.”

  “Granted,” said Hammer. “Karstein has First Company. He’s to surround the Cathedral and meet Hoshi on Mulberry Street.”

  “Got it.”

  * * *

  Roger Moncreve remembered the last thing that had happened as bombs came in on what had then been Third Company. As he got to his feet he drew his pistol; his sword had been out since the start of the fight.

  Just in time. Streetgangers waving axes and swords emerged from the abandoned buildings to their north. Around Moncreve were shocked, stunned and dying Chang soldiers, with his X Company veterans a bit better prepared but not much more.

  He evaluated the tactical situation in moments. The soldiers they’d been facing would be moving in to counterattack too, if their pigeon commander had any sense.

  “X Company, E Company!”, he raised his voice, “Fall back to the Cathedral! On me and fall back to the cathedral!”

  A streetganger, snarling, came out of the gunsmoke toward Moncreve, who parried the sharp but cluelessly-wielded blade and shot the man in the head. Then a knot of three of them came in, cutting down a pair of reeling Changs on their way; Grimaldi and Moncreve stepped forwards with blades raised, hacked the men down.

  “On me and fall back!” Moncreve shouted.

  * * *

  “They’re falling back!” Tav pointed out to Hoshi, through the smoke.

  Yeah, thank God, thought Beppe as he followed the main body of streetgangers. The bleeding-edge ones had been cut down by that fucker in the floppy feathered cap and his buddies, the obvious officer – was it Roger Moncreve? It did sound like that man, and the hat would be his style – dueling and killing three in quick succession.

  “Well, don’t let them!” Hoshi yelled, raising his katana. “Nip the fuckers’ heels!”

  “Bossman says to surround the Cathedral,” said Beppe. “Chase ‘em that far and I guess we’ll be meeting someone there?”

  * * *

  Knots of soldiers resisted Second Company as they advanced through the poisonous smoke, the ground burning in places around them. Some of them fired shots and were bayoneted; others threw their hands up in the air and were told to put them behind their backs to be cuffed.

  One particularly resilient knot fired their muskets at the advancing West Bowery soldiers and Cam Krasner felt sharp agony lance through him as his right leg gave way and he fell on his face, his musket skittering in front of him.

  “Medic!” he gasped. Corporal Antonini repeated the call but the advancing front of soldiers kept moving, the later squads stepping over him. “Medic!”, Krasner gasped, his hands clutching his thigh as blood welled between his fingers and the world started to darken.

  * * *

  “Stand and fight” Captain Goldblatt shouted, waving his sword in the air. “Stand and fight, damn you!”

  Then B Company’s commander collapsed limp as the double line of West Bowery soldiers appeared, moving in single-time step as a forest of bayonets along Prince Street.

  There were a few ragged shots from people who’d managed to reload. But Billy Frick hadn’t been one of them. A piece of shrapnel had gotten him in the upper chest, he was bleeding everywhere, it hurt like hell and his head rang.

  “We will take prisoners! Throw down your arms and live!” a West Bowery officer’s voice came.

  That decided it. He couldn’t fight; fighting would achieve nothing. He would only die.

  He dropped his musket and raised his hands. Next to him, so did Billy McKee.

  So did others.

  * * *

  For John Brasci, waiting with the rest of First Company on audience seats of the Chapel hearing room, the war had been nothing but noise and rumors. Lieutenant Hamill had a radio but he wasn’t sharing; the only thing the company’s acting commander would say was “Stay ready, we could be under attack at any moment.”

  There had been yelling and shooting from all around the precinct, explosions here and there. Rumors had flown too – “Hammer’s going to pull us back to the Lonsdales, we’re bugging out!”

  “No, we’re advancing!”

  “The south has given way!”

  “Friendly fire on our own guys, the pigeons fucked up and we’re screwed!”

  “Chill,” Sergeant Mangoletti had ordered eventually. “Silence in the ranks. None of you know shit and you’re only scaring yourselves.”

  Now, though, an order came, from Lieutenant Hamill on through Mangoletti.

  “Into line and double-time west down Prince Street! You’re reinforcing Second and Third Companies under Major Karstein! Double-time!”

  Finally, thought Brasci. The tension had been getting to him. Some action!

  * * *

  Sixth Company and its armed auxiliaries had started the war as more than a hundred streetgangers, of whom only about a third had been under Hoshi during the coup – the rest were newly-recruited locals. As they passed through the Chang gates on Mulberry Street, the locals evaporated into the buildings to loot. Gunshots rang out here and there, and Hoshi was shouting his lungs out as, with Tav and Beppe, he tried to maintain something of a force to chase the retreating X Company with.

  The smoke in the air was thinner here, where there’d been less fighting, but Roger Moncreve was keeping the remains of his force in good order as they withdrew toward the Cathedral. Shooting came from the south.

  “We are on Mulberry Street,” came Don Karstein’s voice over the command network. “Holy fucking shit, we are on their ground and awaiting orders, Boss Hammer!”

  What, thought Beppe. He knew perfectly well from rumor and his big brother that the Major had been facing three to one odds on Prince Street. They hadn’t just held, but had successfully counterattacked?

  “Sixth Company,” came the crackling voice of a little old lady from the war room.

  It had been made clear to Beppe, however, that those old crones spoke with the precinct boss’ voice now, and not just because they were often relaying Hammer’s own orders. It made sense now why they’d given Beppe the radio rather than Hoshi directly; the streetganger might be reluctant to obey orders from some old raff ladies. He, Beppe, at least understood the concept of chains of command and the idea that those orders would have originated with the precinct boss.

  “Sixth here, ma’am,” Beppe said into his mouthpiece.

  “Take positions overlooking the Cathedral. Cover the place and expect reinforcements.”

  Beppe relayed the order. All too gladly, Hoshi and the remaining other streetgangers – no more than thirty, the rest were off looting now – headed into the nearest buildings.

  * * *

  With the rest of First Company, John Brasci marched double-time along Prince Street, through lingering white gunsmoke that stuck in the air and meant you couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead of
you, if that far. They started to pass bodies and those not quite dead, where Second and Third Companies had held.

  “Sergeant, we need to attend to these guys,” Kimmy Giovetti complained as they stepped over moaning people.

  Sergeant Mangoletti shook his head.

  “No time,” he barked. “Press the advantage, we can take care of them later.”

  There were more wounded and dying people further along the street, with a couple of people – lesser wounded? Civilians? – attending to them. Some of the lesser wounded ones were slumped against buildings by the side of the street, but Lieutenant Hamill urged the company forwards.

  Got to press the attack, Brasci understood in theory. It wasn’t easy in practice.

  Then they came to where the Chang force had been. The ground was pitted and cratered, with dead and wounded bodies everywhere; you had to be careful where you stepped. Hands reached out to the company, pleading for help or just water. Most but not all of them wore Chang grey; others were in green and black.

  A number of troops in green and black were taking care of the wounded here – a couple of sergeants or medics, Brasci didn’t recognize the voices and the smoke was too thick to see faces, were pointing and directing – “bandage him! Put cuffs on that one!”

  It looked like there were a hell of a lot of prisoners. And even more dead – this was what bombs did to closely-packed troops on the street?

  As Brasci stepped over an eviscerated corpse, the company breaking step to make their way around some significantly sized craters in the street, he felt bile rise in his throat.