"Message to General Naudrikol," he said. "Remind him that we must secure the airport."
The signaler began to clack, turning its mirrored surface to flash the orders ashore. The dots grew closer, until they were giant painted birds, eyes and beaks fierce. The hunting hawks of the gods, of the Eagle…
Men do this, he told himself. Not gods, but men like us. We too will ride the wind, when we have won the secrets they strive to keep for themselves.
One was coming toward him on the flagship. It swooped downward, out over the crested blue water at scarcely more than bulwark height. The antiair rifles in the tops were barking at it, as rapid as a rifle with four hands to help load. Ordinary rifles began to crackle along the rail as well, and it was closer, closer, only a few hundred yards…
Raaaaawisshshhh!
Rockets fired from the stumpy second wings on either side of the bullet-shaped body; two, four, spraying forward in paths of red fire and gray smoke. The crews shouted with fear and anger-many of the mercenaries had laid under Tartessian rocket barrages when their homelands were overrun.
At least they won't simply choke with fear, Zeurkenol thought.
And then-marvelous, his heart sang!-the attacking aircraft nosed over and hit the water, became sinking debris. A savage cheer went up from the crew, in the instant before the rockets arrived.
One of the rockets twisted away, struck the water and burst in a club shape of spray. Another corkscrewed through the air, running through the rigging of the flagship, but by a whim of the Jester not striking anything. Two hit the ship, up near the bows, in a blast of fire and lethal splinters. There was a crash, and Zeurkenol heard the high screaming of wounded men as he picked himself up and looked about.
The flagship's skipper was an able man. Well drilled, the crew responded to the fire with water and sand. As he watched, smoke billowed up, and then steam.
He genuflected toward the idol of Arucuttag of the Sea that stood by the compass binnacle; the damage-control teams had caught the fires before they spread to sails and rigging, which would have been certain death for the ship. Then he called out praise to them; they cheered him back.
A quick glance around showed yet more of the craft of the sky attacking his fleet; the air was full of smoke from the counterfire, loud with the crackle of guns, screams, and explosions. One went down burning as he watched, ignited by its own rockets; he sent up a silent promise of a sacrifice to Arucuttag. Another jerked and wobbled in the air; he was close enough to see the man steering it start and slump. By some freak of chance-he felt like beating Arucuttag's edolion with a stick, or cursing the Jester (neither advisable)-it flew straight on, rising slightly, until it crashed right into the rigging of a ship and exploded in a globe of flame.
Lady, spare us! That was the Thunder Walker, the main ammunition ship for the fleet!
Zeurkenol dove for the deck.
"Alston heah," she said, noting with a corner of her mind that the Gullah accent was creeping back. "We're at Quidnet."
The Cherokee Battalion drew up on the beach. All twelve jeeps, not counting this command car, Alston thought. About a platoon's worth of people in the crews. Pretentious damned name.
Everything was silence here, save for the ticking of engines; waves crashed gray-blue on the beach, gulls flew, curlews piped. This would have been illegal before the Event, driving on the beach. Southward from here was Sconset, where the invaders laired now. At this distance all she could see was smoke, and all she could hear was the distant pop-pop of firearms.
"Roger that, Commodore. Major McClintock reports he's pinned the main enemy advance along Milestone Road east of Gibbs, but they're feeling for his flanks-so far he's managed to block them, with Eagle Eye's help. Enemy numbers are well over four thousand and they're putting more men into the fight, plus he reports mortars and light field artillery. He's going to try an attack now. Oh, and he says we need more Gatling guns."
Alston nodded. "Roger. Tell him I'm going to try and ease some of the pressure on him, and I'll tell Mr. Leaton about the Gatlings tomorrow." She looked up; the clouds were thickening. Please. It rains here half the time anyway, why not today? "What about the Farragut!"
"On schedule so far, Commodore. The other ships will be ready to sail as per."
"Keep it coming, Sandy. Over."
"Over, and good luck, Commodore."
Swindapa was chanting softly as she stood at the grips of the Gatling; there was a curious serenity to her face, a calm that helped Marian control the griping feeling in her stomach.
"Let's go."
With the tide going out, the sand was mostly hard-packed, good enough going for four-wheel-drive vehicles, even with the extra weight. Alston let the commander of the Cherokees take the lead in the first gun-car; he was a tall, lanky ex-ranger of some sort from Oklahoma, who actually was part Cherokee and had been over on the mainland for most of the time since the Event. He whooped and waved a hat with a feather stuck in the band as he passed, showing his teeth in what her daddy would have called a shit-eating grin.
"Watch it, cowboy," she muttered, as her driver fell in behind him; there were six other gun-jeeps behind her, and the others pulling the heavy mortars behind them in turn.
Swindapa's eyes stayed on the bluff to their right; much of it was covered with scrub, or twisted little Japanese pine stunted by the eternal winds and salt spray. Wisps of her hair escaped the braid and helmet lining, flaring bright when the sun broke through the cloud.
Alston watched her map and the odometer.
All right, we've got Sesachacha Pond to our right, now if we can just get close enough before they notice us-
"There!" Swindapa shouted.
She twisted the Gatling to the right, squeezing the trigger. The little electric engine whined, and smoke and flame spurted as Swindapa walked the burst toward what she had seen.
The fire was only a second too late. A line of fire lanced out from the brush fifty yards away, ending on the side of Captain Sander's jeep. A hollow boom followed, and the vehicle blew up in a spectacular globe of fire. The driver of Alston's car shouted and wrenched the wheel. Alston threw up an arm to shield her face; heat slammed across her like a soft, heavy club, and then they were through. The wheels on the right side thumped down on the wet sand, and more sand rooster-tailed forward as the driver slammed on the brakes.
Braaaappp. Braaaaaaap. More black-powder smoke, and a shining stream of.40 cartridge cases fountained across her. The other gun-jeeps had opened up as well, muzzle flashes like red knives through the smoke. Alston saw a man jump upright and run, a stream of bullets licking at his heels. He was wearing a pack-frame on his back, loaded with bullet-shaped rockets that had multiple fins at their rear; when the bullets hit him they exploded in a red flash that left a shallow crater in the sand where he had stood.
Another man came up to his knees, a green-bronze cylinder with flared ends over his shoulder. He pointed it at Alston's gun-jeep; he was only fifteen yards away, close enough for her to see his snarl of concentration. A man behind him flicked an alcohol-wick lighter, touched it to the dangling fuse of a rocket in the tube.
A bazooka, Alston thought, feeling her mouth start to drop open. I'm about to be killed by a God-damned sheet-bronze bazooka.
The braaaaappp, and a burst walked its way up the sand and into his torso. The tube kicked upward as he convulsed; it fired, and the backwash turned the loader into a shrieking torch that dashed seaward and collapsed in the waves. The rocket soared upward in a long arc and crashed into the water twenty yards offshore.
Riflemen were firing at her. After the rocket launchers, they didn't seem particularly dangerous-an illusion, but a comforting one. The gun-jeeps raked the inland slope with bursts, shredding the low scrub until the fire stopped, and then some, but no more of the Tartessians appeared.