In an America that might have been, two war orphans from a divided nation, one in the north and one in the south, meet across a vast battlefield, striking out to forge a future together in the west. It's 1892, the fourth and bloodiest year of the Ci...
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A cold wind whipped past Van Cise's face, his head poking through the top hatch, as he stared into the distance trying to see some sign of Denver through his goggles. He lifted them for a moment to try without them, but his eyes immediately teared. Down below, sitting next to him was the major and to either side of them sat tank gunners, staring forward in the dark, alert for enemies, their hands on their Gatling gun triggers.
The engines were deafening, jets of white fire popping out the exhaust manifolds as oxygen mixed with kerosene. The flames added a teeth rattling "rak rak" over their deep droning rumble. Above was the great envelope of their airship stretched taught by the gas cells within, filled with hydrogen. The signal box light shifted from green to yellow. He strained to see, and there up ahead was a trace of light, Denver dim as stars. They had passed false dawn and behind the city's lights was the grey of true dawn on the horizon.
Men climbed into to their seats in the tank and were running along the catwalks beneath the envelope. They were doing the same in the other airships, he was sure.
The pilot pulled a lever, and a new sound burst forth above the low pounding of the engines as shrill jets of blue hydrogen flame vented under each airship. They were going down. The tankers lit their quick fire engines in their tanks, forcing them to life with a roar as they flooded and ignited their coal boxes with acetylene and oxygen. Dropping altitude they came down on columns of blue fire and jets of excess steam from the tanks.
The light box turned red, and he could see the city now spread below.
"All engines even 45!" The men up in the catwalks began cranking the engines up so they wouldn't make contact with the ground.
"Aye sir. All engines even 45!"
The grass and dirt of the airfield came at them frightenly fast. Bullets began pinging off their armor.
"All engines reverse!" cried the ship captain.
"Aye sir. All engines reverse!"
The engines stilled for a second as they switched gears, and then picked up their old pace, and suddenly packed dirt swung by under them. The .30 caliber heavy Gatling guns opened up with hammer blows of sound, their silver tracers arcing out over the field, cutting through the overturned wagons and barriers that protected the sources of the gun flashes in the distance.
Dawn lit the tops of the airships orange and grey, their undersides still deep hydrogen blue strobing white as their guns rattled. They touched down hard, the springs in the tank wheels cushioning the impact, sliding forward across the dirt until the docking clamps released and the airships, one by one shot back up into the sky with ear popping speed, their guns still blazing away at the remaining targets too foolish to run. Then the rumble of their own tank's motor took over, blocking out everything else, and they rolled forward opening up with the hammer beat of their own guns.
