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The Battle of Camp Kill bepn in the early afternoon. It began suddenly and unexpectedly and rushed to a disastrous conclusion. Only a few hours after the Hightee Heller a
BOOOOOM!
A moment later a concussion wave hit the tank a harder blow than ever could have been delivered by a warship shell!
WHOOOOM!
The tank was thrown backwards fifty yards in a breath! Men and huts and buildings were flying through the air as though propelled by the most monstrous hurricane that ever hit a planet's face. Snelz had blown the Camp Endurance shell magazine with enough explosive to level a town! And the magazine had contained enough charge to level a city! Three hundred warships, hovering too low and in atmosphere, caught the full blast of the concussion wave! They went hurtling end over end up into the sky like thrown chaff. They tumbled in the torn air, battered out of control. High overhead, well above the atmosphere at a height of three hundred miles, a thousand rebel troopships hung, watching the debacle. They were ignored, as the intercepts had said they would be, by the neutral Fleet. They dived! In a dazing rush they slashed down to the plain like hawks. Before the dust of the blown magazine had settled– indeed, before the smoke of the explosion had had a chance to rise fully into the air-a hundred thousand rebel troops under Prince Mortiiy were leaping down from airlocks upon the desert sand. With a howling rush, feet hammering, emitting a high keening yell, they fell upon the hated Apparatus survivors with electric bayonets and handguns that bellowed rage point-blank! Their uniforms were tatters, their faces gauntly starved, but they made up for everything else with their pent-up avarice for revenge. There was no quarter given. The few guns the Apparatus got into action vanished under a torrent of flashing blades. Hatred cut a searing swath across Camp Kill. A hundred and seventy-two thousand Apparatus troops were dead in less than half an hour, leaving only some ships and the gun crews on the castle still fighting. They could not be touched by such an assault. But the slaughter of the Apparatus infantry was not the end or purpose of the Battle of Camp Kill. It was only the preparation.
Jettero Heller, aboard the Rebel flagship Retribution, a hundred miles above the battle, gave his weapons belt a hitch. He picked up his helmet from a bench. He looked across the bridge where stood Prince Mortiiy, Hightee Heller and the Countess Krak, spots of color amidst the drab uniforms of the rebel general staff. "I think it's time," he said. "That battle looks about over." "Oh, Jettero," said the Countess Krak, "can't you let somebody else do it? Guns are still firing from the castle! It's dangerous!" Heller said, "Life usually is. Now, don't follow me down too close, as I may still draw fire." "I think," said Mortiiy, "I should make a pass with the Retribution. This ship is armored and can stand some heavy jolts." "No, Your Highness," said Heller. "You're carrying valuable cargo: yourself, my sister and my lady love, to name a few. I've just run out of heroic speeches, so goodbye." The airlock of the tug had been hugged against the Retribution's side and Heller went through and closed it with a clang. He hit the local controls a clip and the Prince Cau-ccdsia jumped sidewise and then hurtled straight down. Two Apparatus vessels, recovered from their tumble, were trying to box in a rebel sighting ship, but he ignored the fight. He didn't have any guns anyway. Fifty miles, twenty miles, down, down, down he went. And then he was in the drifting battle dust above the mile-deep chasm. Yes, there was still some shooting. The guns on top of Spiteos were ma