She brought her rifle up, looked back at the wedge of chariots that followed her. Some were out of the fight already, tumbled with wheels off or axles broken. Most followed, and she waved them to her right. They swung after her, and she brought the weapon up and aimed, knees flexing.
Crack. A miss, and an arrow went whirrrt through the chariot; they were within a hundred yards. But Hittites weren't archers of note, they preferred the javelin and thrusting spear. She pulled a bullet from the bandolier looped around her body and thumbed it home.
Crack. A man flung up his arms and fell backward out of his chariot, tumbling as the speed of the galloping horses threw his body against the ground. That would have broken bones even if his wound was slight.
Raupasha daughter of Shuttarna shouted in exultation.
"They're behind the locals, all right, behind and to the right," O'Rourke said. "We stung 'em."
"What arms?" Kenneth Hollard asked, handing up his canteen. The camel-mounted commander of the Scout company leaned down and took it, drinking with appreciation. The day was growing hotter as the sun rose toward noon.
"Breechloaders for certain. Most of them Westley-Richards like we were using last year," he said. "But they've got something very nasty as well, not a Gatling but something of the sort. Several of them. Cost us."
He inclined his head. Wounded Marines were being lifted off camels and onto stretchers; some were being laid out with blankets over their faces.
"And a battery of fieldpieces-twelve-pounder Napoleons would be my guess-and something else, further back, that they didn't use."
"Numbers?"
"Around a thousand, I'd say-not counting teamsters and such. They moved from column into line very fast indeed, Brigadier, sir. Fire and movement, extended order."
"Thanks, Paddy. Pull your people out, get them something to eat"-he'd had the field kitchens set up along with the hospital; you needed both-"and then dig in, and we'll see what happens. With luck, they think this force is simply locals, an ultralight, and you."
"With luck indeed."
Hollard looked along the line where his Marines were digging in, and the man-tall hillocks over to his left where the New Troops of Babylon waited. One good thing is that soil doesn't show up very well here, he thought. Another is that khaki blends in very well indeed.
He walked forward to the spot where part of the heavy-weapons company was setting up. He'd pushed the Gatlings well forward, giving them interlocking fields of fire along his front and open ones to the flanks. The sergeant in charge paused with a rock the size of a loaf of bread in her hands.
"Bit different from Babylon, nae, sir?"
He nodded, and she hesitated. "Sir, ask you a favor? Sir, it's a letter. In case Skyfather calls me."
He took it: Delauntarax of the Thaurinii, in Alba was written in a shaky hand. Vague, but the Postal Service was used to that; things got through eventually.
"Keep masked until the word comes down, and it'll be the other side who go to feast in the sky," he said, tucking it into a pocket.
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 personnel. That wasn't much: Kenneth Hollard, his six-person staff, and a clump of communications technicians and runners.
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. Kenneth Hollard saw with a sudden stab of alarm that she was holding one hand to her side, with blood on her fingers.
"You're hit?" he said.
"It is nothing, Kenn'et," she said. "A graze. One of the Hittite charioteers had a gun-the type with two barrels, that shoots many bullets…"
"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 Mitannians retreating fast and to the right. Thank God they'd kept enough wits to remember what he'd said; he didn't want friendly forces masking his fire when the fecal matter hit the air-circulating device. And from the dust-bless the dust here, you couldn't move troops without raising it, and it was a boon to the man standing still-Walker's men were coming in on their right a mile further back, ready to support their local allies.
"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, Kenn'et, and hold their hand over you."
"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 running behind- standard formation, for the Near East in the thirteenth century B.C. The Hittites would be more prone to try and ram right in than most, using the chariot for shock. He caught one man with a sun disk on the top of his conical helmet, shouting orders and waving a sword; not Kurunta of Tarhuntassa himself, but probably a relative-the Hittite Empire was a family business, cemented by a stream of daughters from Hattusas sent out to marry vassal kings, and vice versa. The snipers had been briefed to look for that insignia.