Short Fiction Mack Reynolds (best ereader for pdf and epub .txt) 📖

idea to keep them under observation. Fly high enough, of course, to avoid gunfire.”

Hawkins darted a look at Plekhanov, turned and hurried back to his plane.

Joe Chessman, his voice sullen, said to Plekhanov, “We can’t afford any more mistakes, Leonid. We’ve had too many already.” He said to Watson, “Be sure and let their cavalry units scout us out. Allow them to see that we’re entering the valley too. They’ll think they’ve got us trapped.”

“They will have!” Plekhanov roared. “I countermand that order, Watson! We’re withdrawing.”

Barry Watson raised his eyebrows at Joe Chessman.

“Put him under arrest,” Joe growled sourly. “We’ll decide what to do about it later.”

By the third day, Mynor’s rebel and nomad army had filed through the pass and was forming itself into battle array. Rank upon rank upon rank.

The Tulan infantry had taken less than half a day to enter. They had camped and rested during the interval, the only action being on the part of the rival cavalry forces.

Now the thirty thousand Tulans went into their phalanx and began their march across the valley.

Joe Chessman, Hawkins, Roberts, Stevens and Khan Reif and several of his men again occupied the knoll which commanded a full view of the terrain. With binoculars and wrist radios from the Pedagogue they kept in contact with the battle.

Below, Barry Watson walked behind the advancing infantry. There were six divisions of five thousand men each, twenty-four foot sarissas stretched before their sixteen man deep line. Only the first few lines were able to extend their weapons; the rest gave weight and supplied replacements for the advanced lines’ casualties. Behind them all the Tulan drums beat out the slow, inexorable march.

Cogswell, beside Watson with the wrist radio, said excitedly, “Here comes a cavalry charge, Barry. Reif says right behind it the nomad infantry is coming in.” Cogswell cleared his throat. “All of them.”

Watson held up a hand in signal to his officers. The phalanx ground to a halt, received the charge on the hedge of sarissas. The enemy cavalry wheeled and attempted to retreat to the flanks but were caught in a bloody confusion by the pressure of their own advancing infantry.

Cogswell, his ear to the radio, said, “Their main body of horse is hitting our right flank.” He wet his lips. “We’re outnumbered there something like ten to one. At least ten to one.”

“They’ve got to hold,” Watson said. “Tell Reif and Chessman that flank has to hold.”

The enemy infantrymen in their hundreds of thousands hit the Tulan line in a clash of deafening military thunder. Barry Watson resumed his pacing. He signaled to the drummers who beat out another march. The phalanx moved forward slowly, and slowly went into an echelon formation, each division slightly ahead of the one following. Of necessity, the straight lines of the nomad and rebel front had to break.

The drums went boom, ah, boom, ah, boom, ah, boom.

The Tulan phalanx moved slowly, obliquely across the valley. The hedge of spears ruthlessly pressed the mass of enemy infantry before them.

The sergeants paced behind, shouting over the din. “Dress it up. You there, you’ve been hit, fall out to the rear.”

“I’m all right,” the wounded spearman snarled, battle lust in his voice.

“Fall out, I said,” the sergeant roared. “You there, take his place.”

The Tulan phalanx ground ahead.

One of the sergeants grinned wanly at Barry Watson as his men moved forward with the preciseness of the famed Rockettes of another era. “It’s working,” he said proudly.

Barry Watson snorted, “Don’t give me credit. It belongs to a man named Philip of Macedon, a long ways away in both space and time.”

Cogswell called, “Our right flank cavalry is falling back. Joe wants to know if you can send any support.”

Watson’s face went expressionless. “No,” he said flatly. “It’s got to hold. Tell Joe and the Khan it’s got to hold. Suggest they throw in those cavalry units they’re not sure of. The ones that threatened mutiny last week.”

Joe Chessman stood on the knoll flanked by the Khan’s ranking officers and the balance of the Earthmen. Natt Roberts was on the radio. He turned to the others and worriedly repeated the message.

Joe Chessman looked out over the valley. The thirty-thousand-man phalanx was pressing back the enemy infantry with the precision of a machine. He looked up the hillside at the point where the enemy cavalry was turning the right flank. Given cavalry behind the Tulan line and the battle was lost.

“OK, boys,” Chessman growled sourly, “we’re in the clutch now. Hawkins!”

“Yeah,” the pilot said.

“See what you can do. Use what bombs you have including the napalm. Fly as low as you can in the way of scaring their horses.” He added sourly, “Avoiding scaring ours, if you can.”

“You’re the boss,” Hawkins said, and scurried off toward his scout plane.

Joe Chessman growled to the others, “When I was taking my degree in primitive society and primitive military tactics, I didn’t exactly have this in mind. Come on!”

It was the right thing to say. The other Earthmen laughed and took up their equipment, submachine guns, riot guns, a flame thrower, grenades, and followed him up the hill toward the fray.

Chessman said over his shoulder to Reif, “Khan, you’re in the saddle. You can keep in touch with both Watson and us on the radio.”

Reif hesitated only a moment. “There is no need for further direction of the battle from this point. A warrior is of more value now than a Khan. Come my son.” He caught up a double-barreled musket and followed the Earthmen. The ten years old Taller scurried after with a revolver.

Natt Roberts said, “If we can hold their cavalry for only another half hour, Watson’s phalanx will have their infantry pressed up against the pass they entered by. It took them three days to get through it, they’re not going to be able to get out in hours.”

“That’s the idea,” Joe Chessman said dourly, “Let’s go.”

VII

Amschel Mayer was incensed.

“What’s got into Buchwald