“THEY FAILED!” shouted a sec man standing on the catwalk inside the wooden palisade of the outer wall.
On the ground, Sergeant Kissel grunted at the news, but nothing more. Rule number one for any commander was never to show surprise. The men always had to think you knew an event was going to happen and that everything was under control.
Torches lined the area before the gate, the ground littered with ammo boxes and supplies. The sprawling market of Detail was completely empty of prisoners and totally wide open, granting an invader easy access to reach the inner stone wall and the castle of the ward.
“Seal the gate!” Kissel ordered in a booming voice.
With twenty men pushing and swearing, the tremendous portal was firmly shoved into place. Then a stout wooden beam more than a yard thick was slid across the gate and into iron loops on either side. Next, iron bars were rammed into niches set in the cobblestone street and levered up against the stout beam.
“That should hold it,” a private said proudly, pounding it with a fist.
An older bald man sneered at the youth. “Balls, it’ll ram right through.”
“Two feet of oak covered with steel chains?” he cried. “That gate took years to complete!”
“We’re all dead,” the bald man said with a sigh, “and you know it.”
Walking closer, Kissel fired from the hip, and the bald man dropped to the ground, gushing blood.
“Stinking traitor,” he spit, holstering his piece. “You there, take his blaster and ammo. You two, shove the body aside. We’ll feed him to the scavengers later on. After we kill the Beast!”
A ragged cry rose from the troops, but it seemed to lack some conviction.
Kissel cupped hands around his mouth. “Wall sentry,” he bellowed, “give me a call!”
“It’s past the red marker!” the man shouted down, binocs to his face. “Took minor damage from the rocks!”
“Battle stations!” Kissel cried, drawing his blaster.
Racing to the battlements, the guards amassed along the catwalk, crouching to hide their numbers.
“Where are the RPGs and recoiless rifles?” a corporal asked, loading his longblaster. “The bazookas, the LAWs?”
“Back on the main wall.”
“But we need them here to stop the thing!”
“Go complain to the heirs. All we got is these!” He glared at the black powder rocket he was stuffing into a rusty launcher. Two feet long and made from lead pipe, the homemade rockets were crude and had a tendency to veer wildly in flight, often returning to kill the very men who launched them. Missile post was a punishment detail, not a promotion.
Plus, the launcher was merely a beehive array of car tailpipes welded together. A score of thick green fuses fed from the end of the corroded steel and were tied together into a single thick tail. A gunner with a magnesium road flare was ready to light the fuses and then run like hell in case the launcher exploded, as so many of them did.
“It’s approaching the yellow marker!” the sentry called out. “Range, two hundred yards!”
Climbing onto a horse, Kissel rode to the nearest catapult A team of men was tying off the ropes as he galloped closer to the huge contraption.
“What is the status, Corporal?” Kissel demanded.
“Ready to go, sir!” the man answered, snapping a salute. “Number one is loaded, two is being loaded.”
“Range is set for…?”
“One hundred twenty, and one hundred yards.”
He stared at the fresh-faced guard. “Don’t miss, lad, these are our best hope now.”
“We’ll get the bastard, sir.”
“Passing yellow,” the sentry announced, holding the binocs with both hands. “Almost at the green!
Range, one fifty!”
Somebody handed Kissel a rifle, and he counted slowly to three. “Open fire!” he commanded.
Every man on the wall cut loose with their blasters, rifle and pistols, throwing a hail of lead at the tank. And in spite of the darkness and distance, dozens of rounds ricocheted off the armored hull.
“Wasting ammo,” a private muttered, levering in a fresh round.
“Luring it in closer,” a corporal replied, spraying 9 mm Parabellum rounds from his chattering auto-blaster.
“Ready at the cats!” Kissel shouted, reining in his horse. “Prepare to release!”