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She nodded. The crew threw a khaki-colored groundsheet over the Gatling on its two-wheel mount and scattered handfuls of dirt over that. Having dug their own holes, the infantry were doing likewise.
Hollard walked out in front of his own line and examined it carefully. The maskirovka was good-a useful Russian word much emphasized in the tactical manual put together by a committee of retired types with several centuries of combat experience between them. It was another advantage the Islanders had. He'd met plenty of Bronze Age hunters who were extremely good at hiding out, but few of the warrior types thought that way. Most of them had styles that deliberately drew the enemy's attention, and by their codes trying to hide was shameful.
Inconspicuous, he thought, looking at his own position. Looks exactly like about one company, hastily dug in.
Besides the maskirovka, they'd used the irregularities of the ground well; the supplies and hospital tent were out of sight altogether, behind swellings that turned them into dead ground.
He looked back and forth. Troops dug in, reserves at hand, weapons placed by the book… now all he could do was pray.
"They come," Raupasha said, jumping down from her chariot before the hillock that held the expeditionary force's command perso
The horses were flaring their nostrils to draw breath, foam splattered their necks and shoulders, and several arrows stood in the frame of the vehicle. Ke
"You're hit?" he said.
"It is nothing, Ke
"Shotgun," he said automatically.
"A shotgun. But he aimed badly, and I did not." She pointed behind her. "They come."
He nodded. The Hittites were whooping forward about half a mile away, and the Mita
"You should get back to the hospital tent and have that seen to," Hollard said sternly, then smiled. "I don't want it festering."
"No, it would spoil the coronation if I smelled like a corpse three days dead," Raupasha laughed. "Teshub and Indara be with you, Ke
"Amen," Hollard muttered.
She saluted and gave him an urchin grin as he returned the gesture- she had earned it, today and in Babylon. Then she walked away; the driver handed off his team and went after her, carrying the scabbarded Werder and the ammunition, and following the princess with an expression about as doglike as Sabala's.
Have to find her a husband, I suppose, Hollard thought. Though… most of the local aristocrats and princelings wouldn't be very happy with a woman who had been contaminated with Islander ideas of independence. Not necessarily or all the time, he thought. Look at my new brother-in-law. So we should be able to dig someone up for her. The thought was obscurely irritating, and he pushed it aside. Business to attend to.
Now to see if his plan worked. Usually they didn't, in combat. The exceptions were where you'd completely suckered the other side, a successful ambush or flank attack. That was when you won big.
The Hittites were coming full-tilt for his position. He leveled his binoculars; chariots in front at the trot, footmen ru
Closer, closer. Hollard's lips ski
They're using the Hittite's to unmask and develop our position, he thought, plus using them to simply soak up bullets. Reasonably well-trained men and a commander with some grasp of tactics, then. Possibly one of Walker's Islander renegades. He hoped so; it would be a positive pleasure to string one of them up. They'd all been sentenced to death for treason in absentia years ago, too.
Hollard judged distances; you went by which features of a man's body you could see easily, when legs became separate from the generalized antlike blob, when you could see arms swing or a face. The Hittites were closing rapidly, but the Walkerites were hanging back- over two thousand yards, extreme rifle range but well within that of heavy-weapons fire.
He reached for the radio at his belt and clicked. "Captain O' Rourke."
"Here, sir."
"Let them have it, Paddy."
"With a will, Brigadier, sir, with a will."
BAAAAMMM! A hundred rifles volleyed from the Scouts' deliberately badly camouflaged rifle pits. Maskirovka was more than just hiding; it was deception, disinformation. It wasn't what you didn't know that killed you, it was what you thought you knew that wasn't so. A dozen Hittite chariots went down; a few of them flipped completely over, pitching forward and squashing the screaming crews like bugs beneath a frying pan.
Schooonk… whonk!
The Scouts' mortar opened up as well. A shell landed in the middle of the dense-packed Hittite infantry, and men fell, opening out in a circle around the explosion like an evil flower with a crimson blossom. The riflemen were firing independent-rapid as well and at less than four hundred yards mostly hitting. Men and chariots were going down all across the Hittite front; he saw arrows fly out, few covering even half the distance, and there were puffs of smoke from some of the chariots-smoothbores firing shot, even more futile than the bows. The charge wavered, which was exactly the wrong thing to do, like most half measures. They should either run as fast as they could, take cover, or keep charging. A ru
Horns and trumpets sounded. Hollard brought up his binoculars; the man with the sun disk on his helmet had survived and was going into a frenzy of signaling. In between he fired shotguns, handing them off to a loader as he did so-a new use for the three-man Hittite chariot crew, and quite ingenious. The chariots reversed themselves and galloped away, and the infantry flattened themselves to the ground.
Schooonk… whonk! More mortar shells falling among the prostrate men. He sympathized, in a way; that was the most unpleasant part, having to wait helplessly and hope you were lucky. Mostly he felt detached. Down underneath he could feel fear, not so much fear of death as of certain mutilating wounds, and more fear for the lives that depended on his decisions.
"Here they come," he said aloud, and his staff nodded soberly.
The Walkerites were deploying, going from column into a two-line formation, well spread out, swinging in to envelop the little Islander position.