“Dominate that piece of equipment!” he barked as the Protégés took up the strain.
They obeyed, looking at him out of the corners of their eyes. A slightly awed look; he’d taken two strong men’s load for half a minute. The steel clanged down on the side of the flatcar, and the armored vehicle’s driver started to back and fill, aligning his wheels with the ramp.
Heinrich stepped back, dusting his palms. Somewhere south of here waited a pack of animals with delusions of grandeur. Somehow that reminded him of Jeffrey Farr, Johan’s foster-brother. A good man: sound soldier, a bit soft, but sound. A great pity they’d probably have to kill him someday.
“And I was right,” he muttered to himself. “There is going to be good sport here for years.”
* * *
“The sun sets, but it also rises,” Bianci whispered, putting his hand to the pushbar of the detonator set.
“Hmmm?” John said, startled out of reverie.
“An old saying, signore.”
The train whistle hooted again, louder. Always a melancholy sound, John thought, taking a swig from his canteen. Oto was nearly down, but Adele was up, brighter and slower as it rose over the horizon. An armored car running on the rails came first, buzzing along with the belt from its rear wheels slapping and snarling. The turret moved restlessly, probing the darkness. A light fixed above the machine guns swept across the slope. John tensed.
Nothing, he thought, breathing in the scent of the dew-damp thyme crushed beneath his body. Good fire discipline. Not one of the men on the slope had been detected, and not one moved.
“Now,” Arturo breathed, spinning the crank on the side of the detonator. Then he pushed down on the plunger.
WHUMP. WHUMP. WHUMP.
Three globes of magenta fire blossomed along the curving stretch of rail. One before the escort car; it braked desperately, throwing roostertails of sparks from its outrigger wheels. Not quite fast enough. The front wheels tumbled into the mass of churned earth and twisted iron that the dynamite had left, and the hull toppled slowly sideways, accelerating to fall on its side and skid down the gravel and earth of the embankment. The locomotive was a little more successful, braking in a squeal of steel on steel that sent fingers of pain into John’s ears even half a thousand yards away. The front bogie dropped into the crater the explosive mine left, tipping the nose of the locomotive down. That jacknifed the coal car and first boxcar upward off the tracks, leaving them dangling by the couplings that held them to the engine. The rest of the boxcars jolted to a crashing halt. Most of them partially derailed, lunging to the right or left until brought up by the inertia of the car ahead, leaving the whole train of two dozen cars lying in a zigzag. But none were thrown on their sides. . . .
“Going too slow,” Arturo said, puzzled.
Realization crystallized, like a lump in John’s gut. “Trap!” he shouted. “Get—”
Schoonk. A mortar threw a starshell high into the sky above them. Blue-white light washed over the stretch of hill and swamp, actinic and harsh to their dark-adapted eyes. Schoonk. Schoonk.
A rippling crackle of small-arms fire broke out across the hillside and from guerillas concealed in the swamp across the embankment; they’d learned that an ambush worked best with two sides. A captured machine gun was in place there, too, its brighter muzzle flashes contrasting with the duller, redder light of the ex-Imperial black-powder rifles most of the partisans carried.
“Pull back!” John shouted into Arturo’s ear. “Get out, leave a rearguard and get out now.”
The guerilla leader hesitated. With a sound like a giant ripping canvas across the sky, more than a dozen belt-fed Haagen machine guns cut lose from the train. The guerillas’ rifle fire was punching through the thin pine boards of the boxcars, but John could see it sparking and ricochetting from steel within. Gunshields; the machine guns were fortress models, with an angled steel plate to protect the gunner. Their fire beat across the hillside like flails of green tracer, intersecting hoses of arched light through the night. Sparks scattered as the high-velocity jacketed bullets spanged off stone; little red glows showed where rounds had cut reeds in the swamp, like the mark of a cigarette touched to thin paper. Scores of Protégé infantry were tumbling out of the cars, too, some falling, more going to ground along the train and returning fire.