“That’s correct, Colonel.” Roderic pinned him with a hard stare. “Before dawn, you will each lead your brigades to their appointed places so that we may spring our trap once the Iron Army is bogged down in mud to their balls.” He unfolded a smudged, worn paper map and motioned for the others to gather around. Eager Lieutenant Rushing flicked on a flashlight and aimed it at the map.
“Pickering, establish your artillery on this eastern ridge.” Roderic tapped the spot. “Then have your troops cover the cannons with netting and branches, in case General Garcia sends a reconnaissance balloon ahead. Surprise is vital to the success of our ambush.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Pickering stammered, swallowing hard. His bony hand tugged at his collar, but, to his credit, the old man didn’t faint.
Roderic doled out other assignments before getting to McKinley. “It’s imperative you hold your cavalry in reserve until you hear the bugle signal. You’ll be attacking the enemy’s rear once the majority have become mired in the marsh. See here?” He pointed to a section of the deserted town. “There’s a long row of warehouses, a perfect spot to hide horses, motorcycles, and jeeps. You’ll need to start moving into place early, as it’s on the north side of the blown bridge.”
“Yes, sir.” McKinley gave him a smart nod. “We’ll be ready to jab them in the ass.”
“My forces will be hiding in the marsh, like Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox. Nobody so much as sneezes until I give the signal—got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Roderic would have preferred their response had been more enthusiastic.
“General, sir?”
He glanced up at another major, who appeared to be about to vomit, his dark skin blanched like a seashell. “Yes, Williams?”
“Well, General Calder, sir, it’s just that we’ll all be trapped in the swamp too—except for the artillery and cavalry. Our ability to move will be hampered as much as our foes’. I just think—”
“You think, Major Williams?” Calder stood, looking down at the quivering officer under his command. “Your job isn’t to think, but to obey orders. Rushing,” he called, looking about for his adjunct.
“Here, sir!” He snapped to attention.
“Get Corporal Foley to help you distribute the oil barrels to these fine brigade leaders.”
“Yes, sir.” With a salute, he spun on his heel and rushed off, bellowing, “Foley!”
“Oil barrels?” Williams had not vomited—not yet anyway.
“Everyone will take their positions—not in the waist-deep Cypress Creek sprawl, but on the scattered solid mounds where the cattails and willows grow. Stay low and out of sight. At the first sound of approaching vehicles, you’re to pour oil into the creek. Once enough enemy soldiers are wading through, our archers—under your command, Williams—will loose flaming arrows into the marsh. True, retreat will be hazardous at best. Let us hope they’ll be the ones retreating. Any more questions?”
The officers exchanged troubled glances, then returned blank stares to Roderic.
“Very well. Get a good sleep. We strike camp at 0400. Dismissed.”
“What about me?”
Roderic turned to spy his driver, Sergeant Latrice Brant, a solemn look on her brown face. A black tail of narrow braids fell down her back from beneath her cap. In her mid-thirties, a woman’s curves filled out her uniform. And although she was attractive, he couldn’t recall once having seen her smile.
“When we strike the camp, you, the quartermaster, and some of the supply personnel will remain here with my Humvee, the ambulances, rations, and sundry pieces of equipment. Just because you all are noncombatants doesn’t mean you aren’t important. Should anything go terribly wrong, take the Humvee and race as fast as you can to get word to my father.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Well, and the other generals, the queen, and whoever else needs to know. Can I count on you for that?”
“Yes, sir, General,” she answered in a solemn tone. “You can always count on me.”
Chapter ten
Orders Under Fire
The swamp burned. Rockets and cannonballs screamed overhead, detonating across the sprawling battlefield, the concussions thudding through mud and bone alike. Roderic crouched in a clump of cattails with Rushing and Foley tight on his flanks, the air choking with smoke, oil, and scorched reeds. Corporal James Foley—young, tan face smeared black and red—clutched the bugle to his chest like a priceless relic, his singed hair sticking up in ragged clumps. Automatic weapons peppered the swamp, bullets zipping in all directions, ripping blindly through foliage and flesh with equal indifference. Thousands of enemy soldiers already lay dead in the blazing, oil-slicked mire, yet they kept coming—two, three, four more for every one that fell.
Everything had begun as planned. The bombed-out bridge halted the Iron Army’s march. Not willing to risk his trucks, jeeps, and armored vehicles, General Garcia had sent them on an arcing detour in search of another route south. Roderic took some comfort in the belief that Garcia didn’t possess an accurate, detailed map. The mounted and foot soldiers were driven into the creek to cross to the other side. However, rather than spreading out to cross as quickly as possible, they moved in a narrow column, only four abreast.
Roderic had waited until the last possible moment to signal the flaming arrows, which had proven far less effective than he’d planned. The artillery under Colonel Pickering’s command had not waited for his signal. They opened fire the moment the first arrow lit the swamp ablaze. It took four volleys tocorrect the cannons’ angle and range before they did any significant damage. By then, enemy howitzers and rocket launchers had started picking them off. Ten minutes after their first shot, Verdancia’s big guns had been silenced. Roderic didn’t know whether Pickering had been blown to smithereens along with his artillery.
Corporal Foley’s wide eyes searched the general’s. “Should I sound the call now?”
To his left, an enemy shell roared into a machine gun nest, blowing half a dozen of his men into the air. He prayed they were unconscious or dead when their bodies landed in the mucky, burning water. To his right, a brave sergeant mounted an attack on enemy forces who’d made it to the south side of Cyprus Creek. A hundred pikemen charged into Republic gunfire, managing to impale fifty or sixty in seconds. It didn’t seem to matter, as more appeared behind them, cutting down his infantry.