Free Men of War by William R. Forstchen

tactics, how to adapt to what was here, how to lay the trap, and then have the patience to let it spring shut. It was always the attack, the offensive. He was right in that these primitives have no concept of defensive warfare but let them see victory today and it will all change.
    He raised his field glasses, scanning the line, catching glimpses of dark black masses, the Yankee ironclads, advancing slowly, methodically, brief glimpses of blue, the infantry deployed behind them.
    A stream of tracers snapped overhead, one of the ironclads firing at long range. He ignored it, looking across the grove and back toward the rail line behind him. A single train was on the track, one of the heavily armored units. On the siding were dozens of cars, some of them burning from the air attacks, but most still intact, their deadly cargo concealed within. The trenches weaving through the grove, and around the rail track were a masterpiece of concealment, the raw earth carted off at night, the deep bunkers cunningly placed, everything covered with camouflage netting, something that his warriors had first thought was some sort of bizarre joke.
    He could clearly see them now, range less than a league away, the thin line of troops he had deployed were just enough to let the enemy think that there was resistance and that it was now breaking up . “The best time to strike is when your opponent is flush with victory for then the collapse of his morale shall be complete. ” Master Gavagar made that pronouncement three thousand years ago, Jurak thought. Ha’ark had never had the subtlety to think of that, to think of the best way to break their will … now we shall see.
    * * *
    “Jack, to the north, where we were looking earlier.”
    Petracci turned his attention to port, to where Theodor was pointing. The same spot as before, F-7, the plantation near the northern rim of forest. Vertical plumes of smoke, a few before, but now dozens of them. The smudges of smoke were puffing … damn, machines.
    “Take the controls,” Jack shouted. Letting go of the stick he raised his field glasses, braced them, finding it hard to focus in as the machine surged up on an early-morning thermal, then leveled back out. He caught it for a second, lost it, then caught it again… .
    “Damnation, ironclads, fifty … a hundred of them!”

Chapter Three
    G eneral Gregory Timokin never even saw the shot that took him out of the fight. One second he had been watching the retreat of the Bantag infantry and mounted units, eager finally to get in range of the rail line, the next instant an explosion of steam blew up into his turret. He could hear the screams of his crew down below, men being scalded alive from the burst boiler.
    Clawing at the turret hatch, he pulled himself up and out, gasping for breath. Just as he rolled clear of the turret and hit the ground his ironclad blowtorched as nearly a hundred gallons of kerosene poured from the ruptured fuel tanks into the boiler and ignited. Horrified, he could hear the dying screams of his men inside, one of them fumbling at the latch on the starboard entry port.
    He stood up, staggering to the machine. Grabbed the handle to try to turn it, screaming with pain—it was already scalding hot. He felt someone jiggling the handle spasmodically, but the door wouldn’t give. Damn, they were turning the latch but hadn’t unbolted the locks inside.
    “Open the locks, God damn it, open the locks!” he screamed.
    He felt as if he was trapped in a cursed nightmare, the door wouldn’t open, the screaming inside wouldn’t stop … and he was terrified of what he would see if the door did open.
    He heard the screams inside and then he was down, someone pushing him to the ground.
    “Stay down, you damn fool!”
    Bullets snapped past, machine-gun fire, slower than a Gatling but a machine gun nevertheless, the bullets tattooing against the side of his ironclad where he had been standing only seconds before.
    A rocket snapped