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Chapter 55

Southern battle line


From safety, Usan Hussein watched katyusha rockets fire along the Wallachian front. The six-pounders then fired, a swirling wall of whistling iron balls that struck the ground in front of the advancing Sunrise infantry and bounced into their forward ranks. The rockets struck in the center of the advancing men, hurling some of them up and forward in a mangle of twisted bodies, banners, and uniforms. The line seemed to waver; it paused to adjust to the men who had been struck down. Gaps were filled quickly, drums and commanding voices sounded, and the Sunrise advanced.

Somewhere behind the enemy ranks, mortars opened fire, answering the katyushas with their own arching wall of shot. The Wallachian soldiers below Usan’s perch, three ranks deep, advanced slowly under this new veil of enemy counterfire, their muskets primed, cocked, and ready.

“Those are Jewish regiments advancing,” Matei Basarab said, handing the spyglass back to Usan.

Usan adjusted the spyglass and had a look for himself. Yes, yes it was, and he had never seen anything like it, had never seen so many Jews carrying so many rifles. But there they were, rows upon rows of Ashkenazi, moving forward at the quick step and not to submit or surrender, but to fight. “Yes, it is. And it would appear as if they intend on attacking.”

“Should we advance,” Matei asked, “or should we halt and let them come to us?”

The field between the two belligerent forces was relatively open, save for a few modest farmhouses, a small stone wall, and a copse of thick brush. Not enough protection for a good defensive stance. “It is up to you, Voivode. It is your army.”

Matei considered while both forces continued to endure cannon and rocket fire. Then he cupped his hand over his mouth, sucked in a deep breath, and shouted, “Forward!”


Northern battle line


The chaos below the Chaldiran had Vasile Lupu in good spirits. Tatar and Moldavian cavalry were attacking Transylvanian forces on a wide front. Forces that did not possess the kind of up-time weaponry that had ultimately thwarted General Radu’s efforts at Déj. These so-called trabants, manned with Szekler commoners, still fought yesterday’s war, with formations and tactics established well before the Ring of Fire. Facing an army that he understood, the voivode of Moldavia was joyous, rendered nearly speechless with tiny giggles and guffaws that spewed from his mouth in droplets of spit.

“Wonderful, just wonderful!” Vasile said, dangerously leaning over the starboard side of the gondola.

“Do not forget the cavalry behind them, my lord,” Sergiu Botnari said. “They are a modern Sunrise force, and they carry the same pistol I have on my hip.”

Vasile ignored the words of caution and continued to watch the unfolding battle below. Sergiu looked at the kafir Moshe, who stood quietly near the voivode on the starboard side, gazing through a spyglass. The rest of the crew—Mordechai, the janissary guard, and two other men with rifled muskets brought aboard for defense—said and did nothing, preoccupied with keeping the Chaldiran safe and in the air.

“My lord,” Moshe said abruptly, “there are no aircraft on the enemy airfield.”

“What?” Vasile said, grabbing the spyglass and looking for himself.

Sergiu stepped starboard. Quite a distance from their position, but at their height, he could tell, even without the spyglass, that the airfield was barren. A metal tower, a shack, and clearly, there were still personnel on the field, but that was all.

“They must have moved them back to Kolozsvár, my lord,” Moshe said, “to keep them safe.”

All the more reason to have allowed me to stay in the field with my Impalers. We could have destroyed those aircraft before they left. It was on the tip of his tongue, but Sergiu paused, collected himself, and said instead, “I’d now advise that you drop the firebombs upon the advancing cavalry. Dropping bombs on an empty airfield will do nothing but scorch the grass.”

Vasile looked as if he were about to explode, but Moshe gave him a quick nod. “Very well,” Vasile said. “Prepare the bombs, and take us lower.”

“Lower, sir?” Moshe’s eyes flashed concern. “We should not drop too low, my lord, lest we expose ourselves to excessive enemy musket fire.”

“Dropping lower will allow us more accurate targeting,” Vasile shouted. “Haven’t you said that to me before?”

“Yes, my lord, but—”

“Then take us down. Now. I want to see who I am burning.”


The Dixie Chick


Denise’s assignment was to keep HQ apprised of any changes in the enemy’s approach. What was the Moldavian army doing? Where was it moving its forces? How many units did it have? She had already radioed in a lot of information on that score. Now, she was shadowing the airship, watching it closely for any sudden changes in movement or action.

She saw that it was dropping while moving in a straight line, as if it planned on strafing the columns of cavalry moving to the front. Denise changed the channel on her radio and spoke loudly.

“Enkefort, Enkefort. Do you read?”


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Framed