1636 The Kremlin Games (27 page)

“
Yeeeehaaaw!
”

Vladislav looked around, startled by the scream. Cass had reappeared from the back of Bernie’s car and was carrying a long gun of some sort. He was running at the woods on the north side of the road, screaming like a banshee.
Clickety boom
, came the noise. And again.
Clicktey boom
.
Clicktey boom
. Two bandits were down, one with most of his head blown away. Vladislav watched as Cass cut to the right.
Clickety boom
. Cut left.
Clickety boom
. Cass ran in some sort of wild pattern that the attackers couldn’t follow. Neither could Vladislav.

Crack
. A different noise sounded. One of the bandits fell from a horse. Since most of the bandits had been on foot, Vladislav figured he was probably their leader. They should have been paying attention to Bernie instead of Cass, who stood behind his car taking well-aimed shots at the attackers. He was propped up on the front of it, rather. Vladislav could see his head and shoulders. The bandits would be lucky to see his head, or the .30-06 that was killing them. It would take a special miracle to actually hit a target that small.

*     *     *

Bernie had frozen for a moment, when the attack began, immobilized by another flashback to the battle of the Crapper. But as he usually did, he managed to shake it off quickly. Store it away, rather; he never did really shake off those memories.

A familiar detachment came over him. He reached over the back seat, got his rifle, opened the glove compartment and took out a box of ammo. Then he got out of the car and took position using the hood as a firing stand.

Immediately, he spotted a man on horseback and shot him out of the saddle. Then he looked for Cass. The idiot had managed to take out at least two attackers because they’d been completely caught off guard by his broken field charge and weren’t accustomed to the rate of fire of an up-time pump-action shotgun. But they were fighting men and they were all around him. Bernie could see a bandit already taking aim at Cass from the side.

Bernie took him down. One shot. All he needed. He wasn’t in the league of someone like Julie Sims when it came to sheer marksmanship but he was very steady in a fight. At this close range and with a modern rifle, that was plenty good enough.

Lowry gunned down another bandit at point blank range. But for the first time one of his opponents fired back before he fell. He missed because Lowry’s rush unsettled him, but they wouldn’t all miss.

There was another bandit just beyond Cass, aiming at him. Bernie took him down. A bandit next to him. He went down too.

Another flashback paralyzed Bernie for an instant. Furiously, he drove it under. But he’d been out of it long enough for Cass to shoot down another bandit—and three bandits to fire at him.

Blind luck—Cass lost his footing and fell. The bullets passed harmlessly over him. He hadn’t done that intentionally, though. In fact, it was obvious he hadn’t even seen the three men to his left.

Bernie shot one of them. The other two immediately ducked for cover. Bernie fired two more shots to keep them down, giving Lowry a chance to get away. Then he started reloading the rifle.

*     *     *

Vladislav looked around again. The situation wasn’t as bad as it had at first appeared. The attackers had been spotted before most of the column was in the trap. Bernie had apparently gotten their leader, who’d been trying to shift his troops. And Cass, the madman, had spread panic in their ranks—which was made all the worse by Bernie’s deadly covering fire.

Meanwhile, Vladislav’s men were pushing against their northwestern flank and pinning most of them away from the body of the column. Vladislav wanted to charge the bandits; to use the loss of their leader and the panic. A charge now, even with the few men he had, would break them and send them running. If these were all there were. But, what if there was another group? His job was to protect the
knyazhna
and Bernie, not to leave them unprotected while he went on a boar hunt.

The American madman was now out of position. Hopefully, he was out of ammunition as well and would choose to stay down. Cass was well into the trees. Vladislav knew he was going to lose men he couldn’t afford if he rescued the maniac. Yet keeping the up-timers alive was vital. While he was considering his options, there was another new sound.

Bernie was firing again, having apparently reloaded. It was a heavy covering fire, not aimed at anyone in particular—the bandits in that area were all cowering from him now—but just intended to protect Lowry.

That should do, Vladimir thought. And now he could see that the bandits were falling back.

“Hold!” Vladislav shouted. “Don’t chase them. Hold your positions.” Vladislav hated to do it, but their job was to protect, not chase. “Back!” he shouted. “Back!”

*     *     *

Lying under some bushes, Cass let the adrenaline leak away from his system. He’d been an avid hunter since he was ten and a halfback all though high school. Since the Ring of Fire, he had hunted wild boar a lot. Moving fast, moving through woods, and shooting were all things he did quite well. Being shot at in return was a lot less fun.

He reloaded the shotgun, as much for something to do with his hands as anything else. His hands were shaking a bit.

*     *     *

Bernie’s marksmanship had been too good. The man whom Vladimir thought was the commander of the bandits couldn’t be questioned because he was dead. Bernie’s shot had gone into his chest just above the chest bone, shredding the aorta and cutting the spine—as deadly a shot as could be made. He must have been killed almost instantly.

The attackers who had been captured were run-of-the-mill bandits, collected for this. They knew very little. Just that they had been hired and paid unusually well to attack this particular group. They were to kill everyone, take as much as they could carry and burn the rest. His equipage and clothing suggested that the commander might be Polish, but anyone could have hired him. The troops were spending quite a bit of time talking about Cass’ “broken-field running,” as Bernie called it. It made up some for the things he had been saying since he arrived. If he could learn manners, he could be an asset.

“Vas’ka Kadnitsa will probably recover.” Bernie washed his hands. “But I wish we had a real doctor.” He didn’t specify what he meant by a real doctor. Another example of Bernie learning manners. By now, even the doctors at the Dacha acknowledged that they needed to go study with the up-timer doctors in Grantville. Bernie knew it, Natasha knew it, Vladislav knew it. There was no reason to harp on it.

“I have sent a man to the nearest village to report and bring more troops,” Vladislav reported. “About all we know is that it wasn’t a random attack. It could have been the Poles trying to deny us access to up-timer knowledge. That will be what most people will assume. On the other hand, it could well have been a faction in the court, perhaps someone who opposes the income tax or the constitution.”

Vladislav paused a moment, then his curiosity overcame him. “Bernie, what was that long gun Cass used?”

“A pump-action shotgun.” Bernie grinned, albeit mirthlessly. As though he knew that more information would be requested, he continued. “It’s a smooth bore weapon that can fire a solid shot or a bunch of smaller pellets every time it’s fired. Cass was apparently using buckshot. It spreads, so you don’t need to be all that accurate and is heavy enough to take a man down at close range.”

A scout rode up. He and Vladislav conferred for a moment. “We will camp a mile or so up the road. There is a good spot that can be made quite defensible. I don’t want to do any more traveling than we have to, not before we are reinforced.”

Bernie and Natasha nodded. He was the captain and knew what he was doing.

Chapter 43

Dinner had been served outside and Natasha, Anya and Sofia had gone to their tent. Cass Lowry remained at the table, drinking vodka. The American had been drinking all afternoon. Vladislav kept a close eye on him. Lowry was a dangerous man—savage in a fight, and reckless and careless even when sober. He was also apparently a drunkard, judging from the relentless way he’d been working on the vodka.

It was a volatile combination. The camp was defensible, which left the
nyekulturny
outlander as Vladislav’s major worry. Lowry hadn’t let loose of the shotgun all day and had been passing out insults ever since the battle. After-combat jitters, perhaps. Trying to convince everyone, especially himself, that he wasn’t afraid. Vladislav had seen the reaction before. Then Cass had gotten quiet. Vladislav expected trouble. Soon.

The madman stood up and began to walk toward Natasha’s tent. What were his exact intentions? He was probably too drunk to know himself, beyond a raw desire to enter a tent that held two very attractive young women.

Bernie stepped in front of him and said something. Vladislav didn’t quite understand the words he spoke, since his English was still poor. But it was obvious he was trying to deflect his fellow American.

Lowry shoved Bernie away and said something Vladislav also didn’t understand. It was obviously rude; viciously so, Vladislav thought.

More so than Bernie had expected. That was also obvious. Bernie had the disadvantage of being a sane and civilized man dealing with someone beyond those boundaries. The uncultured outlander’s shove had pushed him back and his foot slipped on some rocks.

Vladislav stepped in. The shotgun had to go. He grabbed it from Cass and tossed it to one of his men, keeping the barrel pointed to the sky. Fighting man or not, valuable outlander or not, this one needed a lesson in manners. He hit Cass in the gut. Hard. Then in the face.

Vladislav had been restraining both himself and his men with some difficulty. He had orders to treat the new American carefully. He actually did respect the courage of the man in combat, though no more than he respected Bernie’s cool-headed shooting or his own men’s courage and discipline. But now that Lowry was posing a clear threat to the
knyazhna
, he had crossed the lines.

Lowry had gone down at the second blow but he was getting back up. He went for the pistol holstered at his side and Vladislav kicked him in the head. The American boor went down again.

“I’ve been protecting
Knyazhna
Natasha since she was a child, little man.” The outlander might not have been little physically, but he had a little soul. “I can live with your uncultured ways if I have to . . .”

Vladislav pulled Cass up from the ground, took the pistol out of the holster and set it on the table. Behind him, he heard Bernie talking to the guards. “Hey, guys, I can wait my turn, but at least let me watch.”

His Russian had gotten quite good, idiomatic and almost fluent. Vladislav chuckled. Some of the guards must have thought Bernie was coming to the outlander’s defense.

Still holding Cass by his collar, Vladislav said, “I can put up with your arrogance but you won’t lay a hand on her. Not if you want to keep that hand.” Vladislav hit him again.

Cass flew into the table and made quite a racket going down this time. Then Natasha appeared.

“What are you doing, Vladislav?” The noise had brought her from the tent. She was shouting. “And why are your men holding Bernie? Neither of these men is to be harmed. You know that. Let them go.”

Vladislav let go of the outlander, who promptly fell on the ground, holding his guts, trying not to heave. The other guards let Bernie pass.

Bernie took a few steps and bowed graciously to Vladislav. “I didn’t really mind waiting, Vladislav Vasl’yevich, but you might have left a bit more for me. Don’t worry about it, Natasha. Every man here has wanted to give Cass a lesson in manners from the moment he arrived. He’s earned this, in more ways than you know.”

Bernie picked Cass up and leaned him against the handy cart, propping him carefully. Cass’ knees buckled and he went down again. “I do think you could have left me some, Vladislav. Considering it was me he pushed.”

“I apologize, Bernie Janovich.” Vladislav bowed precisely. “But there was very little to it. I thought there would be more. Perhaps tomorrow.” Cass groaned.

Natasha sniffed loudly and retreated to her tent. “Men!” She stopped at the entrance. “It has been a busy time and I do not read well in a sleigh. I have not had time to read any but the most essential messages from Grantville. We finally have an evening not filled with politics and you children decide to throw a brawl. Keep the noise down. I don’t wish to be disturbed again tonight.”

Fifteen minutes later Bernie and Vladislav had arranged the semiconscious Cass on one of the carts. They were about to walk back to the fire when Natasha came storming out of the tent again. There was a letter in her hand.

“You fool!” she shouted at Cass. “Why didn’t you tell me that my brother wishes to marry Brandy Bates?” Then she hit him.

“Darn it!” Bernie complained, laughing. “I never get a turn.”

*     *     *

Of that charge, at least, Cass was innocent. He hadn’t known. He had left Grantville before Vladimir had sent the letter and it had caught up en route.

Chapter 44

December 1633

“Vladimir sent a whole packet of letters with your car, Bernie, and even more of them with Cass,” Natasha said. “There’s more about the steam engines.” She handed Filip the booklet, since he spoke better German than Bernie.

Filip started reading the booklet and less than a page in began to ask Bernie to define some of the terms. They went over the directions and the calculations in the booklet and called in a few more of their experts, and started working up a modified design for the steam barge engines. These new ones would have slightly tighter tolerances, more wood, less leather and be more powerful for their size. They would still, in essence, be low-pressure steam engines, but with this new information they felt they could push the envelope a little bit.