Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(98)
“I wonder why we haven’t commenced firing? Our friends’ artillery will easily range a thousand meters,” Courtney said, staring at the distant Grik line. It was firm now, still, and eerily silent when the blaring horns suddenly tapered off. There was no chanting or clash of weapons, yet the tension was somehow greater than Bekiaa ever felt it, as if the entire host was coiling, setting its feet, preparing to spring into motion. Courtney seemed to sense it too, and nodded at the single-shot bolt-action rifle slung on Optio Meek’s shoulder. He’d obeyed Bekiaa’s order, returning just moments before. “I’m told Republic machine guns and even small arms are somewhat effective at this distance.”
Bekiaa lowered her telescope. “Kim’s probably waiting to make sure all the Grik are deployed, to kill as many as he can when we do open up. That makes sense,” she replied. “I think they’re all here now, though I only see a few artillery pieces. They obviously brought them up the roads. And if this force was moving to join another, as I suspect, they may not’ve had much artillery to begin with.” She looked at Courtney. “We’ll probably get the word very soon.”
The Grik got it first.
Great clouds of white smoke, perhaps twenty or so, blossomed up and down the Grik line. That was apparently all the artillery they had, but it was sufficient to do some damage. Geysers of earth rocketed up, short of the breastworks, but several white puffs snapped overhead, sleeting musket balls and hot shards of iron down on the defenders. Men and ’Cats began to scream. Bekiaa was surprised—and alarmed again—to see how well the new Grik fuses worked. Another tone sounded from the Grik horns, and the tightly packed formations suddenly loped forward through the smoke, keeping their alignment. Trumpets trilled down the Republic line, slipping the leash on the Derby guns. Dozens cracked at once, sending exploding shells among the advancing infantry or probing for their Grik counterparts. Dirty gray-brown thunderclaps erupted among the enemy, throwing soil and colored confettilike vegetation high in the air. Shrapnel clawed at their ranks. Bekiaa and Courtney were closest to the section on the left, and watched three guns fire as one. Spades at the rear of each carriage dug deep, locking them in place, as the barrels leaped back and then slid forward, just like Bekiaa had seen Walker’s bigger weapons do. Mechanical brakes applied to the wheels further stiffened the platform, and these guns’ crews had their own pointers and trainers as well, already turning wheels to adjust windage and elevation while their first projectiles were still in flight. They knew they had to compensate for the sudden change in elevation caused by the burrowing spade, but subsequent shots would require less adjustment, as long as they engaged the same target.
Most amazing was how fast they fired! As soon as the tubes returned to battery—it took about a second—gunners stepped forward and twisted handles. Empty shell casings arced back on the trails with smoky clangs, and loaders slammed new shells in the chambers. They barely had time to get their hands clear before the gunners closed and locked the breeches, taking up dangling lanyards. Pointers and trainers raised their hands, indicating they were satisfied, before crouching behind a protective shield attached to the front of the trail. Lanyards snapped taut and the tubes recoiled again, with a tremendous, earsplitting roar. It dawned on Bekiaa that just those three guns, little larger than the twelve-pounder muzzle-loaders she was used to, could dish out as much destruction per minute—as long as they had ammunition—as fifty or more Union or Imperial Naa-po-lee-aans.
And it was taking a terrible toll. Great gaps had already opened in the Grik line, advancing at a trot beneath the falling curtain of dirt, debris, and parts of Grik. Somehow, they maintained their orderly ranks, however, closing the gaps and continuing on. But by the time they’d crossed a third of the distance between the two armies, they had to have lost a quarter of their force. Another trumpet call, muffled and indistinct, wafted from the right, chased by clattering machine-gun fire and rifle volleys. The 23rd’s own trumpeter picked it up. Prefect Bele glanced at her and she nodded. “Twenty-third Legion!” Bele roared. “Set your sights at five hundred meters! Front rank, present.” Six hundred troopers in the first of three ranks leveled their weapons, aiming offhand or resting their rifles on overturned wagons. “Take aim!” Bele shouted, staring to the front and shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand, looking almost as if he was saluting the enemy. “Fire!”
Six hundred rifles crashed with barely a stutter, the black powder in their 11 mm cartridges making a dense white, impenetrable cloud, even as the 10th and 5th Legions fired as well. But the thunder didn’t stop. The rapid-fire bark of six Maxims spaced along the front of each legion, set to fire in a traversing arc, perpetuated the racket. A Grik case shot exploded in front of the line, shattering a wagon and flinging half a dozen troops to the ground in a flurry of planks and splinters, their shrieks rising shrill and distorted amid the roar of battle. “Second rank! Take aim!” The second rank had already leaned forward, their rifles over the shoulders of the men and ’Cats in front. They had precious little to aim at, however, because they could barely see the gray mass drawing closer. That was sufficient, for now. “Fire!” Another volley crashed. “Third rank, take aim!”
The first rank would be finishing loading by now. Bekiaa could only marvel at the firepower of the legion, and when it struck her that it was surrounded by two dozen more, it was easy to understand why the Republic had anticipated an advantage over the Grik. The enemy had narrowed that advantage more than anyone here, aside from Courtney Bradford, perhaps, had expected, and there was no longer any question in her mind that this force, at least, had observed their advance. If that was the case, they’d known they were outnumbered, and it would’ve taken time and thought to prepare this reception, in this place. No doubt they were terribly surprised by the lethality of Republic weapons, but they’d adapted and were moving quickly to limit their exposure before they could get in range of their own, and perhaps come to grips. Even so, they’d initiated the battle, and Bekiaa found it hard to believe they were just coming on, in the same old way without a reason. Between the sharp rifle volleys, the bark of 75 mm guns, and the clatter of Maxims, Bekiaa’s ears were in a state of shock. Somehow, though, she managed to perceive a different horn call from the distant woods. She stepped forward, closer to Lok-Fon’s overturned wagon of comforts. Off to the right, to her amazement, the firing was beginning to slacken off.