Battle for Atlantis

CHAPTER TEN

The bridge across the Susquehanna had been burned by the locals, which halted the Confederate advance toward Harrisburg. General Lee received this news without comment. His concern was no longer advancing, it was consolidating. His forces were stretched out over a seventy-mile swath of Pennsylvania, and while there had been minimal resistance o far from the local militia, he knew that Hooker had to be moving toward him. He felt he still had several days to prepare, but then came further bad news: Hooker was no longer in command of the Army of the Potomac.

Lee sat on his horse on the side of a dirt road, watching a column of infantry go by as he pondered this latest development. Another general to face. Lee knew Meade, who was to be next in command, the latest in the line that had taken command of the opposing army. Lee absentmindedly returned the enthusiastic greetings of the soldiers as they filed past He did note that it was Pickett’s division, a relatively new unit overall, most of the men untested in battle. They were Virginians, every single man, and they straightened their backs and lengthened their steps when they saw Lee on the side of the road.

“General.”

Lee turned, surprised to see Longstreet sitting solidly on his horse, like a sack of potatoes. Longstreet had never been an imposing figure in the saddle and out of deference, Lee dismounted. Longstreet did the same.

“How goes the march?” Lee asked Longstreet.

The corps commander tugged on his long beard. “The men are well fed. This is good country for commandeering provisions. They have not seen war here.”

Lee nodded. He’d issued strict orders for his men regarding appropriating supplies. Civilians were to be paid for everything taken-the fact that the pay was in the AA form of Confederate script, practically worthless even in the South, was not a concern to him.

Longstreet let out a long sigh from deep in his barrel chest, and Lee waited. He knew Longstreet was working himself up to discussing something unpleasant, and Lee had found waiting to be the only way to allow the other man to do it. Prodding Longstreet only made him more reluctant to speak.

“Meade’s taken over the Army of the Potomac,” Longstreet finally said.

“I know.”

“Meade’s a solid man. I served with him before.” There was no need for Longstreet to say before what, as they both knew. The days of wearing blue in the regular army of the United States seemed forever ago to Lee. “He’ll move,” Longstreet said. “And Lincoln will be on him to move.”

“Yes.”

Longstreet straightened and looked his commanding officer in the eyes. “Do we know where the Anny of the Potomac is at the moment?”

So that was it. Lee was not surprised. He empathized with Longstreet’s concern because it was his own. “No. general, we do not.”

“And Stuart? Our cavalry?”

“I fear that General Stuart is off on one of his long rides,” Lee said. “I have sent couriers to find him, but none has returned with news. So I must assume he has ranged a bit farther afield than I had wanted.” Or ordered, lee thought, but refrained from saying.

Both remembered the last time Stuart had gone off with the cavalry on a long ride, completely encircling the Union Army. It was spectacular and daring but also militarily unsound as the cavalry was Lee’s eyes. Without Stuart’s men pulling reconnaissance for the army, the Confederates were operating almost blindly.

“If Meade is moving quickly — ” Longstreet left the rest of the sentence unsaid.

“The Army of the Potomac has never moved quickly,” Lee said, realizing even as they came out the danger in such words. “But,” he added quickly, before Longstreet could also point out the same realization, “I am tightening the column. I’ve ordered Ewell’s corps to pull back from York.”

“To where?” Longstreet asked, somewhat relieved to hear the advance was halting, even if only for a day or so.

“A small town called Gettysburg. I’ve received a report that there is a warehouse of shoes there.”

“The men need shoes,” Longstreet said approvingly.

Both men turned as a dashing figure galloped up to them. General Pickett was mounted on a sleek black horse and wore a small blue cap, buff gauntlets, and matching blue cuffs on the sleeves of his uniform jacket. He held an elegant riding crop in one band. Oddest of all, he wore his hair in long ringlets that dangled about his shoulders, and he perfumed his hair each morning before taking to the field, something Lee found distasteful but had refrained from commenting on, especially as, for some strange reason, Longstreet was very fond of his youngest division commander.

Pickett brought his horse to a halt and dismounted with a flourish. “Generals.” Pickett bowed at the waist, which brought a slight smile to lee’s face and a frown to Longstreet’s.

“Magnificent, aren’t they,” Pickett said, indicating his men marching by. “They are ready, sir, most ready to join the fray.”

“The fray will come,” Lee said. He found Pickett too eager to throw his men into the fray. Pickett had seen combat in the War with Mexico where he had been the first American to scale the walls of Chapultepec, a feat for which he had been widely praised. Pickett had graduated West Point with an undistinguished record in the same class as McClellan, the first commander of the Army of the Potomac, and as Stonewall Jackson. Pickett had been wounded in the shoulder at Gaines Mill, which kept him out of the war for a considerable period of time — too long some whispered. Lee had held Pickett’s division in reserve at Fredericksburg as it was filling out with new soldiers after earlier losses when Pickett had not been in command. Both those latter two issues had gotten under Pickett’s skin and he was determined that in the next fray his division would be in the forefront. Lee knew such a thing was more determined by fate than decision, but he refrained from telling Pickett that.

Pickett lifted a gauntleted hand and idly stroked one of his locks, apparently unaware that he had interrupted the two senior officers. “Do you think the Yankees will fight?”

“Those people”-a ten Lee often used to describe the Union Army — “will have to fight now that we are on their soil.”

“Good,” Pickett said.

A sudden feeling of weariness passed through Lee, draining him. He still had a touch of the soldier’s curse and this was not the place to be so afflicted. He threw a boot into a stirrup and pulled himself onto his horse, taking Longstreet by surprise. The corps commander obviously still had something on his mind, perhaps a more vocal complaint about Jeb Stuart and the cavalry being missing, but Lee had not the energy for it nor did he wish to discuss such with Pickett present.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Lee said, as he pressed spur to horse flank and rode off.

Meade inherited an army that had known only defeat, not the most comfortable situation. Indeed, so startled had he been to be awoken at three in the morning with the orders putting him in command, that at first he though the courier had come to arrest him and he had racked his brain-trying o remember what infraction he might have been guilty of. There were other corps commanders senior to him, so he was uncertain why this task had fallen to him.

Regardless, he knew two things: one was that he had to stay between Lee’s army and the Washington/Baltimore area, and then, second, he had to fix and fight the Army of Northern Virginia. To accomplish the first, he immediately issued orders pulling in the bulk of his army North out of Virginia. Hooker might not have been the most aggressive commander, but he had trained the staff and the army well, and he was cooperating fully with Meade. To work on the second, Meade decided to ignore the Confederate cavalry force to his rear and send the bulk of his own cavalry to the northwest to see if they could pinpoint Lee’s exact deployment. He knew it exposed his supply line, but he felt his men had enough provisions and ammunition to fight at least one major engagement. Besides, they would be in Pennsylvania, on Union soil, where he could count on some local replenishment of his supplies.

As he rode North with his staff among the long columns of blue troops, a courier rode up to him with a letter. Meade stiffened when he saw the wax seal — it was from the president and the handwritten scrawl on the envelope also indicated it was for his eyes only.

Meade pulled off to the side of the road, getting out of the cloud of dust that traveled with every marching army. With trembling fingers, he broke the seal and opened the letter inside. It was short and to the point:

Lincoln could see the rows and rows of tents of newly arrived troops camped within view in Washington. A far cry from the city he had been forced to sneak into three years previously.

Lincoln knew he had earned the White House almost by default. He’d been nominated by the Illinois Republican state convention as their choice for president in 1860. During the national convention in Chicago, he earned the nomination by maintaining a very careful position between proslavery and antislavery platforms, which doomed his major competitors. The platform he adopted was one that tried to please both North and South, saying that slavery should not be expanded but should not be abolished where it already existed.

Like most compromises, it pleased none of the extremists on either side.

Fortunately for Lincoln, and the Republicans. The Democrats made the mistake of holding their convention in Charleston, South Carolina. The Northern and Southern · delegations were at odds from the very beginning. Stephen Douglas was eventually nominated, which so incensed the Southern delegates that they stormed out and decided to hold their Own convention, at which they nominated their own candidate, effectively crippling the party’s effectiveness.

Lincoln easily won the electoral votes, but had only 40 percent of the popular vote, not exactly the strongest mandate for a leader. He also failed to win a single electoral vote from any Southern state.

The victory was bittersweet for Lincoln and the country, as the Southern militants had been threatening to secede from the Union if Lincoln was elected. In December 1860, even before he could take office, South Carolina seceded. It was followed shortly afterward by Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas. These rogue states formed the Confederate States of America. The lame-duck president, Buchanan, did nothing to stop the secessionist movement, and Lincoln remained silent on the issue, seeing no point in saying anything until he had the power to back it up. He also hoped. Against what Mary predicted. That Union sentiment might reassert itself in the South and the lost states would come back into the fold voluntarily.

When he headed to Washington to assume office, there Were threats of assassination, so he was spirited into the city under the cover of darkness, something the opposition ridiculed once it was found out.

He’d tried. Lincoln thought as he looked out at the soldiers camped in the capital. His inaugural address had been aimed specifically at the South, to try to allay their fears and reconcile. He’d flat out said he felt the federal tears and reconcile. He’d that out said he felt the federal government had no right to interfere with the institution of slavery where it already existed. However, he’d also thrown down the gauntlet, saying he also believed a state did not have the right to secede from the Union. However, he’d ended the speech by saying that the government would not assail the South. He hoped with this speech to at least keep the wavering states of Virginia. North Carolina, Tennessee and Arkansas in the Union.

The South, of course, took matters into its own hands in the place where the Democratic Party had failed to bring forth a strong enough candidate to challenge Lincoln.

Fort Sumter was fired on, the war was begun, and the Fort Sumter was fired on, the war was begun, and the Confederacy.

Pundits in 1861 had said the war would last no more · than ninety days and end with Union victory. Mary had disagreed, and Lincoln had privately had his own doubts. Over two years later, Mary’s prediction and his doubts had been confirmed. The war had gone more horribly than anyone on either side could have predicted.

And if Mary were to be believed again. it was going to get worse before it got better. How many of those boys out there. Lincoln wondered. Would not see the end of the year?

It was a dark thought, something he was prone to, and he went to the couch and lay down on it, his long legs sticking past the edge, and descended into a pitch black pit of depression.

“The Zulus are more dangerous than you think. You must deploy spies far from your front and flanks.”

General Lord Chelmsford looked up from the splendid meal laid out on the Twenty-fourth Regimental china with irritation. The man who had just uttered this warning was splattered with mud and wore an amalgamation of uniforms-a British cavalryman’s riding pants, a leather coat similar to what the militia wore, and a black hat with a single feather tucked in the brim. There was no indication of rank or even unit. A damn militiaman, one of the local Boers, Chelmsford guessed. He found the locals boring and unsophisticated.

The army was still less than five miles from the Buffalo River despite having crossed it several days earlier. The track was in bad shape, and Chelmsford had sent his engineers forward to improve it to a state where the artillery could traverse it. The forward elements had already fought a brief engagement with the Zulus, routing them out of a kraal that overlooked the track. The position had been taken easily, and a large quantity of sheep and cattle had been captured, several of which had been slaughtered to provide the meal Chelmsford was about to partake of. The feeble resistance put up by the Zulus at the kraal had not done much to impress Chelmsford with their martial capabilities.

“And you are, sir?” Chelmsford demanded.

The Twenty-fourth’s adjutant hastened to make the belated introduction. “This is Mr. Uys, General. He is a scout in the Boer militia and has much experience fighting the Zulu.”

“And do you have much experience leading a column of British regulars?” Chelmsford demanded of Uys.

Even under his deep tan, Uys flushed in anger.

“If your people had done a better job with the Zulu, my people would not have to be here now,” Chelmsford added as his steward brought out a covered dish.

Uys nodded, as if he knew something the general did not. “Good day to you, sir.” He turned on his heel and exited the tent without another word.

As Chelmsford went back to his meal, Uys paused outside the flap and looked about. Chelmsford’s tent was pitched on a small knoll, where the artillery, still hitched to their oxen, should have been deployed. Peering to the north and east, Uys could see a high escarpment — Isandlwana Hill — several miles away. He stiffened. He could swear there was someone up there, highlighted by the almost horizontal rays of the setting sun that came from behind him.

Shakan saw the militiaman leaving the large tent. She felt his gaze touch her even at this distance. The man turned and went to his horse, galloping to the southwest and the Transvaal. Shakan knew he would not return. She was standing on the edge of the Nqutu Plateau to the north of where the British were.

She was worried. The British were moving slowly. Too slowly. She did not know the exact day the battle was to be joined, but she sensed it needed to be soon. She had had the voice in her head all her life, sometimes louder, sometimes just the tiniest of whispers that she could choose to ignore if she wished.

She was alone except for Cetewayo, the Zulu commander. Cetawayo had issued strict orders. The only Zulu south and west of the Nqutu Plateau were those who had put up the token fight at the kraal and retreated quickly as soon as they were engaged, a time-honored Zulu tactic to draw the enemy in. It was so time-honored that Cetewayo had hesitated to use it, until Shakan assured him that the British commander would not know of it.

Shakan had spent most of her life alone. Her mother had taken her far to the north, out of the Zulu territories and beyond the reach of any who might want to harm the daughter of Shaka if they learned she existed. They lived simply, off the land, having little to do with the people in the area. Takir had died when Shakan was twelve, leaving her alone. But just before she died, Takir had led Shakan on a strange journey.

To a cave four months’ journey away, in the very north of Africa. A cave where another old woman had been, as if waiting for them. A woman with white skin. But also with the Sight. Shakan had known that as soon as she entered the cave. The old woman had taken Shakan into darkness and beyond. A journey that had both frightened and thrilled the young girl. That was when she had received the first of her instructions from the voice.

Standing here on this escarpment with the king of the Zulus was near the end of a long journey, one that she knew needed to be over with soon. Beyond the coming battle, she could not see nor had she been shown or told anything.

“They are slow,” Cetewayo said, echoing her thoughts.

“But they will keep coming,” she assured him.

“There is one good thing about their slow movement, though,” Cetewayo said.

“And that is?”

The Zulu king smiled. “They will not be able to retreat quickly either.”

Two more soldiers had been killed on the second jump, colliding in midair and becoming entangled in each other’s chutes. Chamberlain had reluctantly decided that enough was enough. He wasn’t even sure their assault would be an airborne operation. The Oracles had never · been very specific about exactly what form the Final Assault would take. For all he knew, they might have to walk into battle.

Into battle was one last thing they needed to do, a time-honored practice for soldiers about to go into battle: prepare their weapons.

When the final battles against the Shadow had been joined, the human armies had been dismayed to find that their projectile weapons did not work well against the Valkyrie armor. Bullets, even large caliber, bounced off. The Valkyries’ own spears could cut through the armor, but to get the spears, they had to first kill a Valkyrie, something that occurred rarely. By the time they managed to capture some of the Valkyries and investigate the armor, the war was over and the gates were closed.

They’d discovered, too late, that the Shadow used nanotechnology in the makeup of the armor, and that projectiles fired at high velocity actually imparted energy to the molecules that made up the armor, giving them the power to stop the projectiles. A slow-moving projectile — almost a contradiction of terms to a traditional weapons expert — however, could penetrate. The problem was how to make such a projectile?

The answer was a weapon that had to be able to do two things: fire a projectile to hit the Valkyries and then contain a secondary load that could penetrate the suit armor slowly.

Attached to each member of the First Earth Battalion, on the shoulder of their firing side, was the M-6. Each one was three feet long, cylindrical, going from six inches in diameter where the circular magazine was, tapering to a two-inch-thick barrel from which the rounds exited. The n itself slaved to receptors on the suit forearm of the firing arm where sighting was integrated with the suit cameras via the computer. An infrared aiming point was projected from the gun’s barrel and picked up by the cameras. The gun also drew power from the suit because unlike guns that came before, it did not use gunpowder to fire the projectiles but rather an electromagnetic rail system built into the length of the tube.

The cylindrical magazine held eight rounds, which were the key to defeating the Valkyrie armor. Each round was just under two inches in diameter so it could slide down the barrel without having metal-to-metal contact, kept in the exact center and accelerated by the electromagnetic field produced by the barrel on each firing. It took about a second for the barrel to recharge so the rate of the fire of the gun was thus limited.

Each round was a pointed sabot, a casing that held the secondary round that would do the actual armor penetration. The sabot would impact the suit armor and come to a complete halt, stopped by the reactive nanotechnology. A millisecond after being halted, the sabot would split open, revealing the secondary round, which was an inch in diameter. It was a flat-nosed slug that contained a thermal charge that the scientists had discovered could momentarily burn a hole in the armor. The opening was very brief, less than half a second before the nanotechnology repaired it, but it was enough, for behind the thermal charge was the part of the round that killed whatever was inside the Valkyrie suit: a shell that exploded right after the thermal charge, sending a cluster of flechettes through the hole. It was a very complicated system that had taken years to perfect and had yet to be proven in combat.

Chamberlain and his soldiers lined up fifty meters from the base of a long ridge. Engineers had placed targets, both stationery and moving, along the base, and the battalion spent a day firing.

Chamberlain had never gotten totally used to firing the M-6 after being initially trained on conventional firearms. The silent operation as the round was accelerated down the tube and exited it was strange to him. The only sounds came when the round hit a target and the thermal charge went off followed closely by the flechettes charge, a strange double-pop that was slightly preceded by the flash of the thermal charge as it ignited, then the sound wave reached the fire.

As the brutal sun went down, Chamberlain finally called a halt. They were ready. Now it was a question of when they would get the opportunity that decades of training and development had prepared them for.