Feyodor said nothing, helping him along, their crew chief coming up to lend a hand.

They cut a wide circle around the flaming ruins of China Sea, China Sea, half a dozen men lying still around it, blankets already covering their burned and broken bodies. They reached the headquarters, which was filled with wounded. half a dozen men lying still around it, blankets already covering their burned and broken bodies. They reached the headquarters, which was filled with wounded.

"Put me outside," Jack gasped as he looked in at an unrecognizable man writhing on the table, his skin black, the smell of charred flesh thick in the air.

Feyodor got a blanket and laid it out against the far side of the cabin, and together with the crew chief he helped Jack to lie down.

Smoke drifted through the woods, coming up from the burning mill. Ghostlike, from out of the smoke, Chuck Ferguson appeared, walking numbly. He stopped and looked out over the field and then came up to Jack.

"So they got here too."

"They learn quick," Jack said. "What happened back there?"

"I'd just come out of the building. I wanted to get up here because of the alarm. It was the damnedest thing. Their aerosteamer came straight in at the factory, dropping right down on top of it, and four Merki leaped off carrying torches and went in. They blew themselves and the ship up. The damnedest thing."

He shook his head.

"Two hundred people in there," he whispered.

"Theodor?" Feyodor asked anxiously.

"Your brother's all right. He was with me, he's sorting things out now. But not much to sort."

Chuck stood back up, still in shock.

"The damnedest thing."

From out of the smoke, Theodor suddenly appeared, running hard, and his twin brother rushed up to him, hugging him tightly, the two obviously fearful for the safety of the other. Theodor broke away from Feyodor's embrace and cautiously walked up to Chuck.

Chuck looked back at him.

"I told you to stay at the factory."

Feyodor, his features pained, said nothing.

Chuck looked away from him and turned back to Jack.

"Let's get you over to my place, and the other wounded as well. Olivia can help tend them."

"Mr. Ferguson?"

He turned and looked back at Theodor, surprised at the formal tone.

"What is it?"

"She's not at your place."

"What do you mean?" His voice trailed away. "I just left her there an hour ago."

"She came to the factory to look for you."

"What do you mean?" Already his voice was breaking.

"She's alive, sir, but . . ."

"What are you saying? He grabbed hold of Theodor, shaking him.

"She's burned, sir, bad, real bad. They just pulled her out."

He pushed Theodor away and stood silent, swaying.

"Olivia!" It was a drawn-out shriek of pain, and he ran madly off, back into the smoke, Theodor following.

"Here it comes," Andrew said coldly.

A light breeze had finally stirred up from the west, causing the smoke to drift over the battlefield, revealing the opposite shore. A solid column of Merki, a full regiment across and three or more umens deep, started down the hill. Beside them, gunners were limbering up their artillery, ready to push the guns forward. To the rear of the column another umen was forming, mounted warriors, scimitars flashing.

Andrew looked up at the blazing sky, the sun hanging motionless, the heat well above ninety. The hammering had been going on for nearly eight hours without letup. Fourth Corps had almost been overrun twice, fighting raging in the trenches hand to hand, Pat finally committing his entire reserve division.

The charge was coming straight to the left of center. Andrew came out of his headquarters, Schneid following.

"Get your reserve division aboard the trains, move them directly to the center, position them on the forward slope ready to go in. Now move it."

He ducked low as a shell screamed overhead, slamming into the side of his headquarters, the round detonating with a thunderclap, limestone dust and splinters raking across the yard. He stood up and looked back at his headquarters staff at the back of the bastion.

"Get Barry to shift one of his reserve brigades down here-he's holding his own with what he has. I'll be at Third Corps headquarters."

An orderly brought Mercury up, and he mounted, guidon bearer, messenger staff, and bugler falling in around him.

He nudged Mercury forward, crossing over the tracks, moving through the stake-marked path that guided them out of the line of entrenchments atop the ridge and out into the open valley below. To his right, a quarter mile away, was the main line, still manned by Schneid's first division, the position holding well, protected by the grand battery anchoring its flank atop the bluff.

He gave Mercury a gentle tap with his heels, and the horse leaped forward, heading down across the open field, gaining a narrow dirt road which weaved through a row of vineyards, most of it crushed flat by the barrage. A steady stream of walking wounded filled the road, heading up the hill to the hospital area on the east side of Hispania. He knew Kathleen was there; he didn't want to think about what she must now be doing.

Vincent Hawthorne stood up from the trench, gasping hard for breath, squinting to see through the smoke. The ground before him was black with bodies, the last wave having gained the trench, the battle degenerating into saber, bayonet, and clubbed musket. He opened his hand, the blood still flowing from the saber cut to his arm, trickling over the dried blood of 344 William Forstchen William Forstchen the Merki he had shot in the throat at point-blank range.

It had felt good, and the pain of his own wound was barely noticed.

"Here it comes!"

From up over the edge of the riverbank, he saw the standards, the far bank of the river black with them, wave after wave sliding down, splashing into the river. The grand battery to his left, up on the south hill, plunged in a devastating crossfire, shells bursting over the river, solid shot raking the riverbank, knocking down entire rows, but still they came on.

The first line appeared up over the low edge of the riverbank, two hundred and fifty yards away. Sheets of arrows, fired at long range, arced up high and rained upon the covered trenches.

"Hold fire, hold!" Vincent shouted, his voice hoarse. The men around him were armed with smoothbores. Ramrods were worked feverishly, the brief lull giving them time to run swabs down the barrels to clean the choked bores. The men continued to load, many of them taking handfuls of buckshot out of their pockets and pouring them down the barrels, running down wadding on top.

The enemy lines came up out of the riverbank and held, letting the mass build up behind them. This one was going to be different, not a charge all along the line, but rather a column aiming for one point.

He squatted down, oblivious to the arrows, raising his field glasses. The back end of the Merki column was still pouring down from the opposite slope, limbered guns falling in on the flanks. Forty, maybe fifty thousand of them forming.

The chanting grew, incomprehensible, but filled with explosive rage, growing louder. Artillery opened up, plowing case shot into the ranks, the light four-pounders barking, five to ten Merki going down from a single round. Still they waited.

"Kesus, come on, come on," Vincent hissed, the tension nearly exploding inside of him.

Several riders gained the bank, red signal flags up, and they galloped down the line, standing tall in the stirrups, pointing forward and to their left.

The column started forward at the run.

"They're coming on the oblique," Vincent shouted, standing up again. The charge was angling away from his position, aiming straight at the juncture between his corps and Pat's.

Fourth Corps opened up, all but one brigade armed with rifles. Merki went down as if a scythe had cut the front rank. The next rank plunged forward, the deadfalls and traps now useless, the approach carpeted with bodies. The survivors of the last attack, pinned down in front of Pat's line, stood up to join in the assault, leaping forward, their long legs devouring five yards in a running stride.

Vincent jumped down from the embankment and ran to the bombproof shelter behind his lines.

"Get my horse!"

An orderly led the animal out into the sunlight, and Vincent climbed into the saddle.

"Tell Dimitri that he's in charge of the line. I'm going back to bring third division up to our right flank. Send a message to Marcus on my left that if he hasn't already received orders from Andrew to bring up at least one division to support the rear between my corps and Pat's."

He raked his spurs in and galloped to the rear.

"Feed it to them! Pour it in, pour it in!" Pat screamed.

The charge was fifty yards away, pushing in fast. He pulled his revolver back out to check the load and cocked the pistol.

The battery of Napoleons stood ready, holding fire, triple canister rammed in, gunners crouched down, waiting, gun sergeants standing low, lanyards pulled tight.

The charge pressed in, Merki leaping over the backs of their own fallen, some with bows, others with scimitars up, others with lances poised low.

Musket fire raked up and down the line, but not fast enough, men struggling with fouled pieces that had put out eighty, some a hundred rounds. Men started to fasten bayonets, standing back from the firing line, poising weapons up.

Thirty yards, the screaming line a wall that seemed to block out the sky.

At ten yards the battery fired in salvo, the guns leaping high, one of them flipping over, a thousand iron balls smashing down everything across a thirty-yard-wide front, the charge disintegrating, but to either side the host pressed in.

The first wave went right over the trench and continued on into the rear at a run. Others leaped atop the trench covering of boards, their weight bearing it down, crashing into the trench atop the men. A soldier next to Pat crouched low, bracing his musket butt on the ground; a Merki crashed through from above, impaling himself, and the man scrambled out from underneath.

Pat whirled around as a sword struck down from above. He fired straight into the warrior's face, which exploded from the impact at point-blank range, the Merki's hair catching fire as he tumbled into the trench.

Pat leaned into the command post.

"Out, get out! Signal we're falling back!"

A Merki slid into the trench beside him, no weapons in his hands. Pat fired into his chest, the Merki looking at him, wide-eyed. Pat looked at him, realizing that this one wasn't much more than a child, if such things had children, he thought, and seemed almost to be crying. Astonished at his own feelings, he felt an instant of pity, and put a bullet into the Merki's head to end the agony.

He pushed his way up the trench, climbing over bodies, shooting another Merki in the back as he raised up his sword to cut a cowering gunner down.

One of the Napoleons fired at point-blank range, catching a Merki standing directly in front of the muzzle, and he looked away, sickened.

Grabbing hold of a gunner, he pointed back to the north.

"Retreat up the line! Leave the guns-they're finished!"

The artillerymen dropped their equipment, pulling out revolvers, following Pat as he worked up the line. He drew a bead on a Merki standard-bearer standing above the trench and fired, the gun clicking on an empty chamber. There was no time to reload. A gunner next to him went down, a spear appearing to leap out of his chest. He grabbed the falling man's pistol, turned, and killed the Merki standing above him, his hands still on the butt of the spear, roaring in triumph over his kill.

"Retreat up the line!" His voice was failing. He continued up the trench, grabbing men, pushing them forward, a knot of survivors fighting to get out of the tidal wave of Merki that continued to press forward, straight into the center of the line, the Army of the Republics now split wide open in the middle.

Andrew reined in hard in front of the villa which was the command post for the three brigades of Third Corps. The heavy division was formed up two brigades in front, their line a half mile across. A hundred yards to their rear the third brigade was drawn up in five regimental columns. A quarter mile forward, the breakthrough was widening out, the Merki column coming straight in.

"Get 'em in!" Andrew shouted, and he galloped down the front of the line up to the corps commander.

Mikhail saluted and stood up in his stirrups.

"For Hans Schuder, for Rus!"

The cheer rose up, sending a chill down Andrew's spine, and the vast line started forward at the double, moving across the open field.

Gregory, riding beside Mikhail, looked back at Andrew, gave a cheery salute, and continued on in.

He felt a stirring, wanting to ride with them, but knew he couldn't, not yet. When it's lost, then I'll do it, but not before, he thought.

His staff, who had fallen behind in the dash down to Third Corps, mounted on the far slower Clydesdale-size horses, started to catch up. He felt his blood stirred by the sight of the old Third Corps going in, thirty regimental flags dotting the front of the line across the half-mile front. He looked back beyond them to the spreading wall of Merki.

"Fourth Corps going down," he whispered, the hole in the line already as wide as the advancing Third Corps. He looked back up to the circling hills. Where was Schneid's reserve division?

He looked back to the front. Third Corps was engaged, the thunder of its first volley echoing back over him, a high plume of smoke rising up, its own reserve regiments already running to the northern flank to extend the line, matching the growing width of the Merki breakthrough.

He edged his mount back to the villa that had served as Third Corps headquarters and looked up at several men standing on the roof, field glasses turned to the south.

"The left flank of the breakthrough?"

"Looks like Vincent's reserve division is moving to seal it."

He looked back to the north. No more reserves. Where the hell was Schneid's division?

A telegrapher came running out of the building.

"Train of the reserve division derailed at the switch. The entire line's held up."

Unassisted, he swung back up into the saddle and turned to gallop back to the north.

"Wheel it, wheel it," Vincent screamed, galloping down the line.

The first brigade of his reserve division, which had been deployed to face forward, was now completely out of alignment. Third Corps was already moving up to its right, but directly in front the Merki were starting to mushroom outward, moving to the south, rolling up the entrenched line as they moved. He needed to get the brigade turned ninety degrees to hook the left flank of Third Corps at one side into his other two divisions, which were still in the trenches a quarter mile ahead.

"We've got to put a side to the box, close them off!"

Commands echoed down the line.