Assult on atlantis, p.24
Assult on Atlantis, page 24
“Forward at the trot!” Benteen ordered. The firing was now much louder and much more rapid, almost as fierce as battles Benteen had been in during the Civil War. The only thing lacking was the sound of artillery.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
THE SPACE BETWEEN
“Submariners are volunteers for the most dangerous duty in the Navy,” Captain Anderson said. “During World War II the loss rate among German U-boat crews was more than ninety percent.”
Dane could tell Frost was shocked by Anderson’s apparent pride in such appalling numbers. Having served in the Special Forces during the Vietnam War, Dane knew the strange pride men took in being among the elite.
Anderson sighed and looked between Earhart and Dane. They were in his cramped wardroom onboard the Nautilus. Even the ship’s captain seemed to see the weakness of his own words. “Our Earth--our time line as you call it--is dead. We’re all that’s left, and we’re not even there anymore. Some of the men now think we could have a life in another time line”--he held up a hand to forestall Earhart—“but I don’t see how. If the time line is viable, then this ship did its mission and returned home, so we, us in another time line, would still be there and, hell, I don’t know. I just know it wouldn’t work.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Earhart said. “I’ve been trapped here in the Space Between for a long time. I accepted early on that there was no going back and then no going sideways.”
Dane stirred. “Why?’’
Earhart turned to him in surprise. “What?”
“Why did you accept you couldn’t go back to your own world or go to another time line?” Dane asked.
“The portals,” Earhart said. “Some tried to go through, and they ended up like the crewman caught on the deck.”
“But you have Valkyrie suits now,” Dane said.
“But which portal to go through?” Earhart argued.
“Any,” Dane said. “You can go through any in the Valkyrie suits,” Dane continued, “and you’d be all right. You could check them out. Maybe find a world where you could live instead of here--” he waved his hand, indicating the strange place outside the submarine.
Earhart stared at Dane. “Because the voices told me to stay here.”
Dane finally nodded. “Okay. As long as we’re clear on that. We’re all here”--he looked at Frost and Earhart--“because we believe we’re part of a larger plan. One that fights the Shadow. Correct?”
Both nodded in turn.
“But let’s not fool ourselves into thinking we don’t have choices,” Dane said.
“Why is that important?” Earhart asked.
Dane shrugged. “Because we don’t know diddly. I still believe we need to follow the Ones Before and fight the Shadow, but I don’t know what the end of this is going to be. And some day before the end of this war, I think we’re going to have to make our own decisions.”
“That is all fine and well,” Commander Anderson said, “but you started this by saying you were going to need my crew, volunteers for a mission in which they were sure to die.”
“Not just die.” Dane said. “but die horribly.”
Anderson rubbed his hands across his face. “How many men?”
“I don’t know,” Dane admitted. He had counted the number of slots in the ‘power’ room, but he didn’t know how many they would need to do what needed to be done. “There are a hundred slots inside the sphere.”
Surprisingly, Anderson laughed. He removed a small badge clipped to his shirt pocket and held it to Dane.
“My radiation badge,” Anderson said. “We used a crystal skull charged by the reactor core to open the portal that got us here. Moving the skull through the ship, well--” he ripped open the covering on the badge. The strip underneath was bright red.
“We’re all going to die horribly anyway,” Anderson said. “We might as well do it for a reason.”
Nobody said anything for several moments, then Earhart spoke up. “Then where next?”
“We find a world that still has ozone and no people,” Dane said.
“And how do we do that?” Earhart asked.
Dane stood up. “I think we’ll see that once we power up the sphere.”
“Why do you say that?” Earhart demanded.
“The golden orb in the power room,” Dane said. “I think it not only consolidates the power, but is also a portal map.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
LONESOME CHARLIE REYNOLDS
They could all hear firing to the west. They couldn’t see anything because the entire unit was riding in the low ground formed by a ravine running to the north. Four miles had passed since they’d looked from the high hill and Sergeant Kanipe had been dispatched to bring up the pack mules. Lieutenant Cooke rode just behind Custer as the long line of troopers moved at a trot. Lonesome Charlie Reynolds was also close to the general.
“Perfect,” Custer said to Cooke. “Reno will fix them in place. They don’t know we’re coming--these hills are a perfect shield.”
Reynolds didn’t quite share the general’s optimism, but the scout didn’t say anything. The horses and men were nervous both from the sound of the fighting to the west and the knowledge that they were heading toward the massive Indian village.
The Crows scouts, who had been ahead, were now sitting off to the side of the ravine. Custer paused and looked at them. They didn’t look anxious to continue. Custer crooked a finger to them. He signed with his hands, indicating they were released from duty.
The scouts nodded their agreement, then turned their horses and rode toward the south. Custer spit. “Cowards, all of them. I’d rather not have such with me.”
Reynolds thought the scouts were the smartest people in the area.
Custer cut into his brooding. “How do we get down there?”
Reynolds pointed ahead and to the left, where the ground started descending more steeply. “That’s Medicine Tail Coulee. It runs into the Little Big Horn.”
“Can we cross down there?” Custer asked.
“I suppose,” Reynolds answered weakly.
“I rode up the Little Big Horn during the ’74 expedition,” Custer said. “It’s not deep. I’m sure we can cross. We’ll go down and smash them against Reno’s blocking force.”
As far as Reynolds could recollect, Reno wasn’t supposed to be a blocking force. Reno’s battalion was supposed to be attacking the village, but Reynolds didn’t see any point to reminding Custer of his own orders. A light was in the general’s eyes, one that Reynolds had seen before, the light of battle. There was no stopping the man now.
“Trumpeter!” Custer called out.
Martin rode to Custer’s side. “Go to Benteen,” Custer instructed. “Have him link up with the pack train and bring them forward on the double.”
Lieutenant Cooke tore a page out of his notepad, scribbled on it and handed the piece of paper to the man. “Go!” Cooke yelled. Martin galloped along the line of troopers. Cooke watched his departure with sad eyes.
Custer faced downslope. “At the quick, men!”
The coulee narrowed as they descended, forcing the column of fours to become twos. Reynolds was not far behind Custer, who led the entire force. Reynolds happened to look up and see an eagle circling high above, floating on currents of warm air. “I wish I were you,” he whispered.
WALKS ALONE
The vision was true. The soldiers were coming out of the heights and falling on the camp. But the others had not listened, drawn in by the firing to the south. Walks Alone had remained, but not totally because of the vision. He was only twelve, and he’d been ordered to remain behind if the camp was attacked. He was to use his rifle to defend his tribe’s portion of the camp, along with several other boys and old men. It had been very difficult for Walks Alone to remain in place as he heard the firing and war cries to the south, but he had done so.
And now his obedience to his orders was bearing fruit. More blue coats had been spotted coming down Medicine Tail Coulee, opposite his tribe’s lodges. Walks Alone and the handful of armed boys and old men left in the camp had raced to the opposite side of the Greasy Grass from the coulee and taken up position, watching the blue coats get closer and closer while a messenger was sent to the south to warn the warriors of this new threat.
Walks Alone steadied the barrel of his old rifle on a tree. There were only old men and a handful of warriors at the west side of the ford. And there were so many soldiers--a file, two by two, as far as he could see up the Medicine Tail Coulee. In the lead was a slender white man in pale buckskins, followed by a soldier carrying a fork-tailed banner with crossed sabers on it.
There was a grassy half-bowl on the east side of the river. Medicine Tail Coulee, down which the soldiers were streaming, entered the bowl from the southeast. A sharper, more deeply cut ravine branched up to the northeast, about forty feet north of Medicine Tail Coulee. A high ridge abutted the river between the two coulees.
The lead soldiers paused in the bowl, gathering strength for a charge. The buckskin soldier was gesturing, crying out something in the words of the white man, gesturing right toward where Walks Alone was hiding and the village behind him.
Walks Alone now knew he had not been a coward. If he had run to the sound of the firing he would not be here to see Sitting Bull’s vision come true.
The hooves of the buckskin soldier touched the water, the first of the white men. Walks Alone pulled back on the trigger, surprised at the kick of the rifle against his shoulder. The buckskin soldier twisted in his saddle and crumpled, a look of shock on his face. He was kept from falling only by the quick actions of another soldier at his side who spurred his horse to the buckskin man’s side and held him.
Walks Alone pulled back the lever on the rifle, the spent shell casing tumbling out. His fingers shook as he pushed another cartridge in the chamber. The soldiers would overrun them, he knew that. There was no way the handful of warriors could stop them. But he would stand here and do his duty. He looked up and was surprised to see that the soldiers were milling about. Not charging. The column in the coulee was halted by the confusion. The soldiers were not falling into camp.
Walks Alone sighted in on another blue coat and pulled the trigger.
CHAPER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE SPACE BETWEEN
Dane tried hard not to look at the hundred men strapped into the alcoves all around him. He stood next to the golden sphere, while Earhart had taken her place in the pilot’s pod. They’d run a wire from the two chambers so he could communicate with her. He wore a headset with a boom mike in front of his lips.
“Are you ready?” Dane asked.
“Yes.”
Dane placed his hands on the golden globe. It was cold, dead. He began closing off the outside world. Focusing only on the object between his hands. He’d had a map of the portals in his hands once before, and he remembered what it felt like. He projected that feeling through his hands, into the globe. He felt a tingle, then growing warmth. He kept his eyes closed, his focus tight.
“I’m getting something,” Earhart reported.
The surface was beginning to pulse under Dane’s hands. The portal map he’d used before had been like a ball of snakes, the various tubes between portals writhing with energy.
“The inner surface of this is flickering,” Earhart said. “I’m getting glimpses of the immediate area around the sphere.”
Dane felt the drain as the globe drew power from him. A sharp pain lanced through his brain, from frontal lobe to rear and down into his spine. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could continue putting in power.
“Oh.” Earhart’s voice was odd.
“What is it?” Dane asked, trying to maintain his focus.
“I see how to draw power from the” –she hesitated—“fuel.”
“Do it.” Dane didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to see the men whose fate he had just sealed. Immediate fate, he reminded himself as they were already dying from radiation—as would millions on his planet if they didn’t succeed. It was brutal math, but realistic.
Sounds intruded on his focus. Moans. Hisses and gasps of pain. In concert with the cacophony of pain, Dane felt power flowing in from all around. The pain in his head receded. The surface of the globe was now dissolving into the portal tube lines. Dane felt his hands becoming enmeshed. He saw flashes, visions, flickering images of what lay on either end of the portals as he ran his hands over one, then another of the strands.
Earth. The surface blasted and blistered from nuclear weapons. A wasteland. Gone. Not a viable choice, Dane shifted to another strand.
Earth, where a hammer and sickle flew over the White House. Not a viable choice as the environment appeared sound and people were alive, regardless of who ruled America.
Earth, a large city, which Dane couldn’t quite place, the streets deserted. Dane gripped harder, trying to hold on to what he was seeing. A blue sky. No apparent damage. Just no people. He slid his hands both ways on the strand. He reached a knob at the end of the strand with his left hand and focused hard. A column, but clear, shimmering, not black.
“I’ve got it,” Dane yelled. Too loud, hurting Earhart’s ears. But he was being overwhelmed with the screams of the men surrounding him. He didn’t want to know what the sphere was doing to them to produce the anguished mental power he felt washing over him.
“I’ve got the location in the Inner Sea,” Earhart confirmed. “But it’s not active.”
“It will be,” Dane whispered. He focused on the knob in his hand, drawing in the emotional power from the Nautilus sailors. He felt the sphere moving, and he knew Earhart was doing as she had promised--flying the massive object through the Space Between.
“It’s getting black,” Earhart said. “What the hell are you doing?”
Dane didn’t answer. His hand tightened on the knob on the end of the strand, feeling the warmth grow to blinding pain, but he didn’t let go.
The sphere accelerated and Dane staggered, almost losing his grip inside the portal map.
“I see it. I got it.” Earhart’s voice was rising in pitch. “We’re going in.”
The sphere lurched and pain spiked through Dane’s left hand, so severe he let go. He staggered back from the portal map.
“We’re through!” Earhart yelled.
Dane looked around. One hundred men had taken their place in the alcoves. He estimated more than half were dead, their heads solidified. The rest didn’t look very healthy.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
LONESOME CHARLIE REYNOLDS
“The general’s hit! The general’s hit!”
Lonesome Charlie Reynolds didn’t need the high-pitched screaming of Custer’s standard bearer to tell him what he had just witnessed with his own eyes. He rode forward along with several troopers to the general’s side. Custer’s eyes were open, and he seemed more surprised than anything.
“They shot me!” Custer exclaimed, lifting up a blood-soaked glove from his side. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“Easy, George, easy.” Boston Custer was at his brother’s side. The command was halted. Firing from the other side of the river was continuing, but it wasn’t particularly strong. Reynolds slid off his horse and knelt, one hand still holding his reins and at the same time steadying his rifle while he aimed across the river. He fired.
Reynolds, like Bouyer, was a half-breed, and he’d seen all the signs. The two had talked and Bouyer had given him a very strange thing: a clear skull wrapped in a leather satchel, with the admonition to keep it near Custer all the time. What Reynolds would have really preferred was to ride away with the Crow scouts, but he knew this was his fate.
He’d recognized the sun dance circle when they’d passed through it the previous day, and he knew from that and what Bouyer had given him that he was in the midst of great events. Reynolds had done the sun dance when he was fifteen while still living with his mother’s people. He knew there were things in the world beyond the knowledge of man and much more powerful. The Great Spirit chose a man’s fate when he was born, and all any man could do was live through his fate as best as possible.
As he reloaded, Reynolds looked around. The front half of Captain Yates’s F Troop was now in the grassy bowl. E Troop was bottlenecked in Medicine Tail Coulee behind it, the column of twos halted by the sudden stop of F Troop. Another ravine just downstream looked like it went up to the northeast. The Indian fire was not heavy. Other than Custer, only two other troopers had been hit, both wounded. Reynolds could see the lodges on the other side. The village was there for the taking with a determined charge.
But Yates was with the general and his brother. They were arguing about whether to remove Custer from his horse. At that moment, one of the troopers in F Troop took an arrow through the throat.
Reynolds remounted. Several troopers were firing, but the rest were milling about, no orders being given, the entire command stopped with the strike of one bullet. Without the general, Reynolds knew there was no one who could lead the regiment, not even Benteen if he were here. And the fire from across the river was growing heavier by the minute.
GALL
The edge of his hatchet dripped red as he walked among the bodies. Gall could hear firing from the other side of the river. Warriors had chased the soldiers over there and into the bluffs. The camp was safe, and a victory had been won, testified to by the number of bodies in blue lying about the valley floor and the fact that the white men were running away in a panic.
He spun about as he heard a shout. A large man with black skin was running, rifle in hand. He had no horse and must have been cut off when the whites retreated. Gall had seen this man before and knew of him. He was named Isaiah. He had a red wife, but he had betrayed the people and now served with the whites.
