The Company of the Dead (70 page)

Lightholler watched as the Dragons started up again. They were turning around.

Shapes flitted across the screen. Another tank veered into view. It bore unusual markings: two broad, vivid diagonal stripes. Handprints were smeared along its side. It shook violently, firing off a round. The explosion pummelled the walls of their enclosure before coming to a halt. It sprayed a salvo of machine-gun fire on the evaporating line of fleeing men. Japanese soldiers began running, headlong, away from the shack.

A second tank pulled up alongside the first. A head emerged from the commander’s hatch, leonine and bearing a full war bonnet of notched, wind-blown feathers over long braided hair. He turned towards the camera. Two buffalo horns adorned the wild ruffle of his headdress.

“It’s him,” Hayes murmured.

“Him?” Lightholler asked. “Who’s
he
?”

“Michael Iron Horse,” Shine whispered. “He led the left flank at Mazatlan.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Lightholler’s face gleamed in the monitor glare and twisted in dark delight. “The cavalry’s arrived and bless me if they aren’t indians.”

“The Japanese are pulling back, sir, rallying this side of the west tower.”

Kennedy acknowledged the captain’s words with a forbidding smile. He surveyed the escarpment. Twenty-two functioning heavy Jackson tanks had been recovered from Indian Springs; spoils taken from Alpha’s occupying force. Fourteen of them were now arrayed before him. The remainder had been dispatched—along with a portion of the men—to Red Rock, under Iron Horse’s command.

Ghost dancers, riding the armoured side-skirting, had managed to decorate the vehicles while they were in transit. Bold black stripes of war paint now adorned each side. The bloody red hand of Lakota war parties, not seen in well over a hundred years, branded the turret of each vehicle. Besides the tanks, there were a number of trucks and an armoured car. The car, liberated from a platoon of long-range recon, brandished its new pennant—a red hand on a field of white.

Beyond, stretched out along the incline, his men were grouped into their various companies. They’d run all night, initially following Shine’s path, and then trailing the refurbished convoy. They were still running in now, massing as they arrived at the foot of the slope.

Nearly a thousand men.

“Everyone in position?” Kennedy asked.

“Almost, sir.”

“Looks like we won’t be missing Tecumseh’s dance after all.”

A low rumble of laughter emanated from the ghost dancers nearby and died out swiftly to silence. A few stood at attention. The majority leaned forwards, hands on thighs, or sat hunched over, catching their breath. Some refreshed themselves from canteens or chewed on rations.

“Get them ready, Captain. Three-up formation.”

“No reserves?”

“We only get one shot at this. No reserves. I want a tank spearhead and mortar cover all the way down the slope.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why are you smiling, Captain?”

“My uncle was with you at Mazatlan, sir. This formation sounds a little familiar.”

Kennedy smiled. “Leave off on the sniper deployment for the moment.”

“Very good, sir.” He moved off towards the first company. His orders were conveyed in a silent exchange of hand signals.

Kennedy scrambled up to the escarpment’s edge and lay flat next to his scouts. He was handed a pair of binoculars. Below, where the rock fell away to rolling desert, a settlement of plastic and steel had grown overnight. It shimmered into the distance. He made a systematic appraisal of the enemy.

Perhaps as many as two brigades, and more than two hundred tanks, stood among the rows of tents. There was no telling how badly they’d been affected by the electromagnetic pulse. They were attended by enough mechanics and crewmen, however, to offer a modicum of hope. Infantry mingled with engineers and camp followers seeking shade from the unremitting Nevada sun. Each officer walked with two samurai guards in tow, their katanas sheathed but rifles at the ready in response to last night’s brutal culling. Apart from the members of the elite Hachiman Brigade, he identified Imperial Watchmen among the grenadiers of the 2nd Imperial Tank Army. His best guess: twelve thousand troops.

The earlier reports from the west watchtower were accurate. The Japanese command had dealt with the night’s guerrilla warfare by gathering their supplies at a central depot. Fuel tanks sat side by side with water drums and ammunition caches, all contained within an extensive picket line.

A large detachment of mixed infantry was beginning to make its way forwards. A company of tanks advanced alongside them. The attendant dust cloud made it impossible to estimate their number, but their destination was clear. They were bound for Red Rock.

He searched westwards, beyond their march, to where the desert flats rose up into the ridge that guarded his installation. So close, and yet so impossibly far away.

Moses never entered the Holy Land
, he told himself.
You had your chance, Joseph.

His roving eyes settled on the artillery regiment, a mixture of self-propelled eighty-eights and one-twenties. He managed to smile, however, when he recognised their insignia. Union troops. He let the idea gestate.

Patting the adjacent scout on the back, he withdrew from the escarpment’s edge. His captains approached him, wearing their feathered war bonnets and shirts of tanned hide and buckskin over the body armour. The designs, blue-green, were inlaid with fine metal strips and beads. Their faces, starkly daubed with red and white streaks, were fearsome masks.

Kennedy said, “I want the snipers on those far ridges to the west and further down beyond this one. Have them target the Hachimans. I don’t want my boys going hand-to-hand with samurai.”

“They can take them,” a captain offered.

Kennedy leered. “I want my men to have a straightforwards action, Captain Red Thunder, not an entertaining one.”

“Understood, sir.”

It took five minutes to finalise the deployment. The Japanese reinforcements had yet to move off. Iron Horse morsed in to announce that the Red Rock installation was under heavy fire, but holding. The cavern was secure.

Hayes informed him that two hours might see them through.

Kennedy approached his command car and retrieved his satchel. The journal was in safe hands with Lightholler for the moment and the remaining contents were secure. He eyed the sturdy antennae array mounted on the back of the vehicle. In Tecumseh’s absence, any of the captains might have led the ghost dance ritual. He looked among the men, making his selection.

He called over Jimmy Crow God.

Reaching into the satchel, Kennedy withdrew the drawstring pouch. It contained a sample he’d obtained on first finding the carapace, when he and Hardas had scoured the amazing artefact for clues to its origins. It was sand he’d swept from the floor of the machine. Sand from that other world, that
true
world, from a time before Wells had spun it on its new, darker axis.

He gave the bag a final squeeze and handed it over to Crow God.

The sun, just past its zenith, glared balefully. It was almost time.

Last night he’d struck a bargain with the devil but the relief he’d sought had not arrived. A final inspection of his troops, however, found no faults. His men had reclaimed Alpha and run through fire under atomic cloud. They stood ready to run again ... one more time.

If there was one thing he truly desired, it was this. That the true world this day might reclaim could acknowledge the brave souls whose blood had been shed in its rebirth. Friend and foe alike.

No. There was one other thing. He thought about Patricia and felt the grit aggravate the corner of his eyes. He wiped away the moisture.

A radio transmitter, close by, bleated its request for a response. The signal came from the Japanese watchpost they’d encountered on first approaching this ridge. It hadn’t been cleared yet. Two dancers hastily approached the post and worked their way among the bloodstained sandbags, carting away the dead. One of them secured the transmitter and donned an earpiece. He listened in.

“It’s their ops centre, sir, requesting an update.”

“Perfect,” Kennedy said. Donning his helmet, a simple, unadorned metal bonnet, he cleared his throat and seized the microphone.

The bulk of the enemy artillery were Union conscripts—members of the 82nd, a division that had once prided itself on including representatives from all forty-eight members of the former federation of American states. He found the notion inspiring. Perhaps it was time to serve up his own particular interpretation of Camelot.

He turned to Crow God. “Bring my command car and all of the Jacksons up to the ridge’s edge, all turrets on lowest elevation. Minimise their exposure. Have them target the depot but under
no
circumstances is anyone to fire on the Union artillery. Fire on my command.”

“We’ll be within range of their one-twenties,” Crow God said.

“I know. Let’s hope they pay us close attention. There’s a flag in my satchel. On my signal I want you to run it up the car’s antenna. I want them to see it clearly.”

It had hung in his office since Camelot’s inception. On a whim he’d brought it with him to New York and it had followed him through every step of his journey. Until recently, the journal had been wrapped in its folds.

He addressed one of his radio operators. “Have us patched through on all known Japanese frequencies. I want them to know who they’ve been dealing with. Besides, our friends at Red Rock will be listening.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

As one the tanks surged forwards, the sound of their advance thankfully lost to the teeming multitude below. Tossed sand rolled forwards in a brown mist to shower down over the escarpment’s drop. Crow God had the command car verging on the edge of the steep parapet. Kennedy shouldered the radio pack and mounted its running board. He worked his way up to the bonnet and looked down through falling dust.

Another burst of Japanese, more insistent, shattered the silence.

He keyed the transmitter.

“This is General Joseph Robard Kennedy. You are currently surrounded by elements of the 1st Rangers Armoured Division,
United States
Armed Forces.” He turned to Crow God and quietly murmured, “Fire.”

The twelve powerful one-oh-five-millimetre cannons discharged as one. The tanks roared and the ridge itself seemed to quake. The air howled around him, while below the depot belched thick black smoke. Smaller explosions rippled among the ammunition dumps, toppled dominoes of bright red flame.

He glared down at the Japanese host, rekeyed the transmitter, and announced, “I respectfully await to discuss the terms of your surrender.”

The smoke cleared slowly. The radio twittered static. Nothing more.

He raised the binoculars to his eyes. The Union batteries had drawn a bead on them. A single one-twenty hurled its formidable reply. The shot flew wide, tearing at the earth half a mile from their position. Two more cannon opened up, their shells remaining strangely clear of the ghost dancers’ formation.

Kennedy said, “Show them the flag.”

“This symbol has rarely been kind to our people,” Crow God replied.

Another blast, less wide, rocked the ridge.

“We’ll try to give it a new meaning in the world to come,” Kennedy murmured.

Crow God scuttled over to the antenna and began to run up the banner. It rose, limply to the apex where it draped heavily against the antenna mast. Hot air whipped around the Jacksons. It rose lashing the standard around its mast. The flag, unseen for eighty years, unfurled in magnificent splendour. Forty-eight stars on a banner of red and white stripes.

Kennedy removed his helmet. “This is General Kennedy of the United States Armed Forces.” His voice shook slightly.

Veterans among the Union forces might have remembered a younger Kennedy’s call in the aftermath of the last Ranger War. Senior officers might have recalled yet another Kennedy, riding through the streets of Dallas.

“On behalf of the provisional government of the United States of America, we hail our northern brothers of the All-American Fighting 82nd. Please lower your sights and await further instructions.”

Another shell whistled overhead. It opened a crater just beyond the assembled companies of ghost dancers. Kennedy cast an eye back over his men. None had fallen, none had flinched.

“Fire.”

The Jacksons launched a second volley. Their sabot rounds ripped the earth. The depot was obscured by a foul cloud of sooty debris.

“Officers of the Imperial forces of Japan, come forward under a flag of truce and your men will be spared. You have two minutes to comply.”

The Union guns ceased.

Crow God leaned back in the driver’s seat, his face struck with wonder. He had the small bag in his outstretched palm. He handed it over to Kennedy. “This one’s yours, sir. Today these men would gladly march with you into the Hunting Grounds and beyond.”

“I just need them to follow me down this hill.”

“Give the order.”

Kennedy scanned the plain. The 82nd, spread out to the west of the blazing depot, was in disarray. Most of their guns had been turned away from the escarpment. A few were now trained on the dormant lines of the Japanese tanks. A task force of Hachiman samurai, distinctive in their black leather sachimono, elbowed their way towards them through the disordered crowd of scattered soldiers.

More disciplined units rallied at the foot of the slope. They divided into two columns and began working their way along the lower mounds of the escarpment. A sudden disturbance, sand banks billowing in long, low waves, heralded the first movements of the Japanese armour.

“Major,” Crow God said, “what are we waiting for?”

Kennedy replaced his helmet and tightened the strap. One of his sergeants, a black ghost dancer, approached him carrying a small pail of red paint. Kennedy bowed his head forwards and felt the gentle pressure of the dancer’s coated palm against his headpiece.

“Good cloud, sir,” the dancer mumbled.