1635 The Papal Stakes by Eric Flint, Charles E. Gannon Page A

shotgun, tracking back along the route of Tom’s retreat. Troop sounds—a platoon or more moving quickly—were growing loud enough to rival the cataract back there.
    Harry shook his head. “Not yet.”
     
    Lieutenant Hastings saw that the approaching figure was the large up-timer, Tom Simpson. He was limping and staggering, now, probably both wounded and exhausted. And behind him, only twenty yards or so, the first of the Spanish were visible. And one, in the lead, was stopping, raising his arms…
    …drawing a bead?
    Lieutenant Hastings brought up his Winchester and yelled, “Get down, Simpson. Squad, fire at will!”
     
    Tom heard the British accent, almost sobbed in relief, and dove forward with the same gusto and abandon that had propelled him into Ohio State’s end zone when it had been fourth quarter, two minutes left on the clock, and fourth-down-and-goal-to-go from the three-yard line.
     
    Corporal Torres felt the men on either side of him go down, and discharged his musket in the direction of the small and ominously rapid muzzle flashes. Up-time weapons or copies—no doubt about it. But the range was close, and he had fifty men. And since one of their quarry was obviously a Moor, it seemed only right to cry, “Santiago and at them!” Dropping his spent firearm, Torres sprinted forward. Drawing his sword, he swept it back in readiness…
     
    “Now,” said Harry calmly.
    Five yards beyond the upslope trees that lined the cart-track, the nine members of the Wrecking Crew unleashed a near-uniform volley from their trademark pump shotguns. With the center of the ragged enemy column now directly abreast of the Crew, the carnage was startling. More than a dozen Spaniards sprawled, theirblood black in the early moonlight.
    The lethal, hollow-tube sound of the shotguns’ cycling actions—the dull ker-throonk of rounds being fed back and up from under-barrel magazines—offered a faint counterpoint chorus before they roared again. Other sounds of twentieth-century slaughter added to the waves of sound, echoing off the rocks of the Val Bregaglia several more times before giving way to absolute silence.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    “Well, I guess that was just about a perfect L-ambush. And improvised on the spot, no less.” Harry Lefferts seemed very pleased with himself as he and Sherrilyn emerged from the woods and strolled into the small clearing that had been the dirigible’s original extraction zone.
    The airship was now resting on the ground; every thirty seconds, Franchetti goosed the burner, sending a long blast of heated air up into the envelope. He turned to Miro and North. “We go soon, si? I waste fuel to keep the dirigible in readiness.”
    Harry looked at the casks of fuel stored at the midsection and ends of the gondola. “I thought you brought extra juice.”
    “ Si , but ‘extra’ is not ‘endless.’ And flying back could be difficult. We may have to land and take off again—at Bivio, I think. And that will make returning to Chur a very close thing.”
    “Land again? Before Chur?” Sherrilyn asked, reloading her shotgun. “Why?”
    Franchetti shrugged, with a dubious look in Miro’s direction. “I am not sure I want to try to go all the way back through the Sur Valley in the dark. It was bad enough in the day.”
    Cardinal Ginetti got more pale, if that was possible.
    Miro nodded and stepped down from the gondola as the Crew hauled out their packs. “I agree with Franchetti: you cannot fly that route at night. The air-currents around the Lai di Marmorera and the Sur are too unpredictable, and you would have to fly to twelve thousand feet to be safely above them. It is too risky. Better to stop at Bivio, at the south entrance to the valley. This part of our mission is to ensure that Captain Simpson’s group returns safely to the USE. Having them killed during a daredevil return flight would rather defeat the whole purpose, no?”
    Lefferts nodded, smiling. “Well, at least I don’t have