The options were stark: North or South.
The North had the easiest access to the city proper. But then again they weren't sure about the precise location of their objective: the intelligence that they'd been handed indicated the transmitter was potentially around the city centre. But that was intelligence gathered at least a week ago, with the possibility of movement. Add onto that, the presence of the Lost, as the men called them. Potentially thousands of abandoned people, twisted by the invader's machinations.
To the South: sparser population centres, farmland and forests. But also fifty foot tall walking death-engines. And whatever additional troops the enemy had decided to deploy along their southern flank. If they were as cunning as their technology indicated, that would surely be where they'd reinforced: as the south was where the bulk of the British army was based and, thus, where any assault would originate.
Zhaojie had sat at the back of the cargo hold, head resting against a sack of oats, whilst the Corporals and Hackett argued the toss. He breathed slowly, listening to their hushed, but terse, conversation. They went quiet when he straightened and leaned forwards.
"How much ammunition do we have?"
The soldiers exchange glances. Hackett chewed his cheek and shrugged, "Twenty more crates aboard, plus the scalings the troops have. A good ten thousand rounds at least."
"Explosives?"
"Three hundred pounds, give or take. Plus petards. Bomb-lets and the like."
"Enough to stem the entire population of Newcastle?" The men frowned and Zhaojie chuckled, but without humour. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face shadowed by the dim candle-light, "South we likely face the rear-guard of our foes. You do not place your sentry lines next to your command tent, no?"
Hackett shifted, "But they won't be unguarded."
"No, but a bulk force will be easier to spot. Likewise to the north, we face hordes, with numbers unknown. Especially at night, when sound will carry."
"So neither option is a goer? Well, we could try the river, go as far up as we can."
"A moving boat in a dead river, Sergeant? We know they are watching the waterways."
Hackett gave an exasperated grunt, "Zhang you know I like you, but this cryptic stuff gets bloody old. Out with it, before these idle sods glaze over," Zhaojie raised an eyebrow and Hackett gave a lopsided grin, "If you'd be so kind, sir."
"All three."
Hackett frowned again, "I'm not sure I follow…"
Zhaojie chuckled again, "Not so hard, Sergeant. The real problem is not the direction - all pathways are deadly; our choice is the manner of risk we wish to take and how we would fight. The mistake is assuming we will always end in combat; thus you are all talking about the best way to have a last stand. This is not Rorke's Drift, my friend."
He pointed at the map spread out on the crate and tranced lines along it. Hackett frowned and looked back up, "Split the troops? But that'll mean if they are caught out, we can't help…"
"The aim is to not get caught. We are not here to fight. Sergeant. We are here to capture. We need to get in and then get out. The Out part is where we'll be fighting, in the worst case. And I imagine we'll want more ammunition at that point."
One of the Corporals shuffled, "True enough. But still that minor sticking point of getting in, Boss."
"As I say, split. Smaller groups are harder to track and if one is seen then they will likely be able to draw attention. But I do not think that will be enough. I do not wish to put men out there as… bait."
He indicated some more points on the map, slightly inland to the north, then traced a line across the river. The Corporals watched as the Chinaman placed small buttons he fished from his pocket atop the man. "Points of interest… and in villages?"
"Let us note what we have learned. One, the enemy to the north respond to sound. Or rather, loud sound. Two, the enemy to the south also seem to respond to these disturbances, but with only a limited response. Three, we know the enemy to the south has firepower in excess of our own. Thus, we would wish to avoid it. We can either go around them or… move them."
Hackett and the Corporals exchanged glances, "We can't exactly ask them politely, boss."
Zhaojie grinned, his face near demonic in the candle-light, "Oh I don't know, Sergeant Hackett. Everyone enjoys receiving an invitation, do they not?"
London was quiet, for a city under siege. Smoke drifted lazily across the horizon, blotting out the sun, as the season drifted towards Autumn. When winter hit, things would get much, much harder. Within the White Tower of fortress at Tower Bridge, Anderson stood in front of a map of the city and glared at it.
Black zones, demarcated by threads of dark string, ringed areas of denial, where the strange impact of the black canisters had given rise to the dead walking. Dark purple indicated where known enemy incursions kept cropping up, marked by pins. And there were a lot. Reports indicated the Fenian movement were fully involved with the invaders, but newer reports indicated men in uniforms, potentially indicating traitors from the Army or perhaps a foreign power operating within the great City.
But there were other, human concerns.
Areas ringed in red, small now, but spreading. Upsurges in an outbreak of cholera and influenza; dysentery and other highly infectious diseases. Bodies were being cleared as fast as more refugees poured in from all over, pressed in from boroughs slowly falling to artillery strikes or terror attacks from the invaders.
London was a pot ready to boil over. The river was choked with makeshift rafts, made of lashed-together barges; parks were tented camps; streets and stations were home to huddled figures. They'd had to pen off parts of the city and turn them into plague pits, disposing of unknown dead. Many in the administration had fled, seeking their own salvation, adding to the tide.
Not enough men to man the gates, let alone bury the dead.
Anderson heaved a sigh and glanced over at one of the crowded tables in the Command room. Clerks and soldiers were crowded around it, poring over dispatches and recent communications from the front. It'd been nearly three days since they'd sent the expedition to the north of England and no word as yet. A hell of a gamble, but it felt like that was all they had left.
He'd listened to an early morning briefing which had covered the initial movements; the Royal Marine contingent was moving north, out of the safe zones created by the Naval gun-ranges. Portsmouth and most of the southern coast was safe… safer at least for now. The marines had rendezvous with a contingent of Army regulars, a mish-mash of battalion remnants and corps trying to reorganise. So far, they had managed to form a bulwark and had, apparently, pushed up to South of Aldershot. Beyond that news was grim; most of the West of England was burning. Fields aflame, forests being torn down and that insidious red weed spreading like a scab across the land.
General Marter had dispatched the majority of the military based in London to the West, intending to push from Ealing outwards, clearing any zones of the Lost and securing a buffer. The cavalry needed open land, so had been sent north out of the city to try to make use of the more open terrain and to reconnoitre where they could.
What missives he'd been sent had indicated a planned assault for the following day - a pincer attack from three directions, at different points along the enemy's line of advance. The plan was sound - allow the enemy to spread out, reducing their ability to focus their formidable power in any one area. Multiple artillery barrages from several key directions followed by a "lightning thrust" as the abject imbecile Tasseter.
It wasn't a terrible plan overall. But even one of those machines was a terror - eliminating the threat posed by God-knew how many and pushing into the enemy's area of influence? That seemed improbable.
Anderson chided himself - it had been his suggestion, after all. But then again, he had also expected the other commanders to add a level of nuance, or some sort of strategy beyond… charge. Frankly, it was all a little too Punch for his liking. But then again, fear made men revert to their base nature. And it seemed to have brought out the strategically anaemic in the British high command.
A young officer approached and coughed, handing over a small slip of paper. Anderson read it and sighed.
"So, into the breach in three days. Barely seems any time at all. Let us hope the gods smile on us. Lieutenant, have you seen Doctor Vahlen?"
"No sir. She was due to have finished briefing Mr Smytheson and his aides, sir. So likely she will be in the main research offices still."
"Thank you. Carry on."
Anderson watched the man go and turned back to the map. His gaze took in the more reassuring colouration - greens and blues, denoting garrison placements, artillery zones and ranges, as well as a few other little surprises. He'd marked out, using orange string, the areas he'd entrusted to the East India Remnant, as he called them.
Smytheson was an unknown, not entirely trustworthy. Likely as not, he would try to turn a profit from whatever endeavours he encountered. But Anderson had glimpsed his men - long-coat wearing men in scarves and with decent rifles - an older version of the British Army issued Martini-Henry rifles. Reliable at least. He'd given them duties more around policing and securing some of the fringe areas near vulnerable roads or train tracks - but nothing key.
Smytheson had been all smiles, volunteering his men wherever needed, but Anderson didn't want to rely too much on them yet. They would prove a useful reserve, an augmentation to the core defence of London, hence their scattering near civilian groups and refugee camps, supporting the diminished constabulary of the Metropolitan Police. A few of their trench-coat wearing figures he'd allowed to post on crossings and at logistical distribution yards, alongside some of Marters' remaining Garrison. The General had been grateful for the bolstering, allowing him to free up more soldiers for the fight.
Anderson heaved a sigh, then stalked from the Command room. He felt helpless, like a line flapping in the breeze. He'd given the orders and now… now he had to wait. And hope that Zhaojie lived up to Shen's admiration. Walking out of the White Tower, he crossed through the inner yard and clambered up the steps to the walls of the Tower of London.
Mist was settling on the Thames. He peered across the water where the covered bulk of the Ironclad sat, moored near the Hays Wharf. Shen had been aboard, marvelling at the vessel, with the Captain following like an affronted hawk. The enigmatic Chinaman had taken stock and measurements and was tinkering with something in his workshop even now. Better artillery? Improved shells? A walker of their own?
Anderson wouldn't have been surprised. His last visit he'd seen the man use one of the Heat-rays himself, although that had resulted in a lot of melted metal and a burning warehouse. But the man had not been discouraged.
There seemed to be a lot of activity over by the Ironclad, loading and unloading. Anderson was familiar with artillery drills and this looked similar - men rushing on board in uniform fashion, hauling crates on and off. Perhaps an emergency evacuation drill? Maintenance? He wasn't certain; he did need to check in with Captain Mainwering anyway, to ensure the sailors weren't getting too frustrated.
A bark of command caught his attention and he glanced down at a platoon of drilling soldiers. This bunch had been a lucky batch; Marter had seen fit to siphon some new weapons their way. This batch was a series of magazine loaded rifles - Lee-Metford bolt actions, still undergoing trials But the rate of fire increase was astounding. Anderson had hopes they'd be able to distribute these more widely; Shen had taken a look and seemed of the opinion that it "would not be a challenge".
Having one's own personal armourer seemed a boon.
Lost in thought for a moment, he didn't notice he wasn't alone until a gentle cough drew his attention. Bradford stood at ease nearby.
"Sir, you ok?"
Anderson smiled and nodded, "Taking the air Captain. I don't know about you, but I do despise the waiting."
"Had a drill sergeant tell me that's what the Army was mostly about. Five hours waiting, ninety seconds of pants crapping terror, then more waiting."
Anderson's smile grew and he chuckled, "Erudite fellow. And very on the mark."
"Wanted to let you know, we got a pigeon from the north."
Anderson arched an eyebrow, "Oh?"
"From Hackett. Ship on site, the message was that they're attempting to find a mooring spot, then will check for an ease of advance into the city. They have a plan, encountered minor resistance but are currently secure and undiscovered."
Anderson arched an eyebrow, "Small writing, that Hackett…"
Bradford snorted, "If you wrote it, sir, they'd need an albatross."
"Touche."
"And… yeah I'm embellishing. Message was coded but basically 'Here. Mooring up. Dead enemy engaged. No live engaged. Identifying entry. More to follow."
"Best preserve pigeons for when they find something. Good to know they're on task. But that'd have been a good four hours ago, surely, if the pigeon didn't get distracted.
"We can but hope and wait then."
"Indeed. Shall we go see what Shen's concocting? I fear it's got Captain Mainwering all a jitter, if all that rushing about over there is anything to go by."
"Yes, sir."
Jiayi watched as the men unloaded the last of the boats. She huffed and rubbed her hands together in the sudden chill of the afternoon - the North of this dreary island chilled abominably. One of the men nodded at her and pulled something from his pockets, handing a tight woollen bundle to her.
"Keep you a bit warm, miss. Just don't get 'em too wt, they hold water like a bloody sponge."
She eyed the soldier then nodded, taking the bundle. The man, more of a boy really, gave a smile smile and strode up the shore towards, bending to help a fellow trooper carry an ammunition crate. Jiayi looked at the gloves, then pulled them on. She checked her rifle, crossbow and pistol, then hefted another crate and followed the troops up the shore. This was nearly half their contingent and she nodded to Zhaojie.
"You are certain this is wise?" she asked in Cantonese. He frowned at her, then answered in English.
"Necessary, not wise."
"Why are we to the North?" she queried, again in Cantonese. His frown deepened but she met his gaze.
"We know how to move more silently. And our task is to be the faster team."
On the southern bank, Hackett had the remainder of the men. The Captain had his own task and not an easy one. He'd been given the choice of going it alone or coming with them and he'd chosen to stick with the troops. He'd said he hadn't wanted to be… outdone by the army. And he'd grinned when he said it.
Zhaojie turned to his troops and looked them over - sixteen men and a few women, the latter part of the Chinese contingent. He nodded with satisfaction and spoke.
"Our job is simple. Bring the enemy to us. We must move swiftly. You know where we are headed, what our goal is. Stevenson, keep a tight hold of your explosives. Marshal, when we stop you must work swiftly. And all of you, no shouting, no gunshots if we can avoid it. Knives, crossbows, clubs. These are our first resort. Any bodies you see, make sure it stays a body, but do so quietly and carefully. We go north, then west. Single file, extended line, follow each others footsteps, Jiayi will show us the quiet path. Let us go."
He turned and raised an arm. Far across the river, a good couple of hundred yards, a distant figure waved back. Zhaojie wasn't sure which of their tasks was harder, but Hackett knew the reality of trekking across occupied territory - how to avoid patrols, how to keep a larger body of men hidden. Zhaojie and his ilk, they were men and women who had hunted in Canton and the islands of the China seas; he had been raised to hunt animals and the Lost were akin to beasts - driven by senses moreso than even honed soldiers.
The pigeon had gone as soon as they'd formulated the plan in detail. Three prongs:
To the North, a fast moving section laying the ground work for the distraction, as well as making headway to Newcastle.
South, the main body would move at pace to Gateshead, to see out the city and get a good view of the city from a distance. Their advance would wait for a few hours and would require some bedding down in whatever cover they could find, whilst the other teams "cracked on" as Hackett had so eloquently put it. Whilst a large block of men, they would split further and take differing routes, extended, to keep abreast of patrols and push around to the city itself.
And finally, the third prong - the river. The boat would head up a short distance, then hold up, whilst the crew prepared their final distraction - a little flotilla of their own, complete with a few surprises.
Zhaojie knew it was throwing a few things at the wall and seeing what stuck; but the Northern and River teams would, if they were fast enough, make life easier for the Southern advance. Their pace was quick, across the quay they'd fought across the night before and back into the mix of railway tracks and low houses.
In the distance, maybe a mile away, smoke rose from the city. But it was darker, flecked with orange and soot. More a fire-smoke than that of industry. And Newcastle wasn't as well known for its mills. A sense of foreboding was creeping among the troops, but Zhaojie pushed them on as the sun passed its zenith.
Their journey was surprisingly free of incident. Moving between buildings they did find signs of the Lost - webbing and strands of strange fibres; smashed windows and animal carcasses. The few bodies they did find were partly crumbled, or frozen in relief - these they dispatched, quietly. Some of the men blanched as the seemingly solid bodies crumbled at the impacts of rifle butts, or a sudden stab from a bayonet.
They kept close to the river, moving along the edges of the various Quays along its shore. All along stood the abandoned hulks of unfinished ships; floating fishing boats; and the forest of masts of docked vessels listing and untended.
It was in one of these quays they found what they were after - a fuel depot. Coal stood piled in a yard just off from the main quay, whilst a warehouse stood deserted, save for several barrels of oil. Quickly, Zhaojie's men set about the place, rolling barrels into the street and splitting them with bayonets, before kicking them into the slope that led to the quay-side. Others hauled coal as quickly and quietly as they could, stacking it around the base of wooden ships and timbers. Meanwhile, Marshal and Stevenson set about setting up several explosives and laid out spooled fuses, set to a timer that Shen had provided just in case. Little more than a clock with a basic battery, it'd still do the job… hopefully. After half an hour, the troop moved further west, heading towards the first major bend in the river.
Jiayi had taken the opportunity to take two of her fellow Triad members with her. They checked the surrounding buildings, clearing whatever dormant Lost they found, then managed to find a tall steeple to try to spy out the distant edifice that was Newcastle.
On their return Zhaojie got a stark report: the city appeared to be partly aflame. Or at the very least, it was belching smoke at an alarming rate from several points. This obscured a lot of what they could see. What Jiayi had seen however, was a huge grey shed.
Zhaojie looked at her, "A shed."
She shifted, "Yes. Vast. As big as the Cathedral in London. It looks new. Long. North of the city. I could see Fighting machines through my binoculars. But not well. The smoke obscures much. And the hills her hide half of it on the rise where the river bends. Too many houses between. But i saw them. It looks to be partly in the city - they have cleared buildings on the hillside for it."
"A factory? Prison?"
"I do not know Zhu. Just that it was big."
"We must press on."
The team moved on a bit further, setting up another series of explosives around a housing area. Zhaojie was troubled - the fighting machines were on this side of the river - or at least some were. Did that mean the Lost weren't such a deterrent? Or was it just because that part of the city was secure?
The afternoon was drawing in slowly, the sun setting, as they came towards the outskirts of the city, having curved with the river then cutting West through the village of Walker. The roads here weren't as cobbled, despite proximity to Newcastle, the quays less developed. They paused in the town, having setup another series of detonators and charges.
Even here, the view was masked by smoke and dust. It took Zhaojie a moment, perched atop the wreckage of a house, to make sense of what he was seeing.
It wasn't smoke he was seeing - it was dust - erupting from excavations and the demolition of houses, being smashed apart by scuttling, distant, beetle-like walkers. He could see the south of the river, where Gateshead stood. The town was mostly intact, but buildings near the bridges were levelled, around a large crater. Evidently the cylinder here had impacted the town itself. But the crater was no longer an open hole - instead, it sported a dome of green glass, faceted like the eye of a dragon-fly. It was beautiful and foreboding. From his vantage, he could make out distant entry points and a file of figures going in. He gestured for binoculars and peered through them.
His fingers tightened and he heaved a deep breath. Jiayi was scrambling up the rubble and joined him, where he sat with another scout.
"Zhu?"
Wordlessly, he handed the binoculars to her. He heard her gasp and nodded, then descended the pile of wasted mortar and brick, to rejoin the team. He squatted down near them at looked at them one at a time.
"We may have a complication. The invaders appear to have setup… a camp."
One of the Corporals, Essex, frowned, "Well, we knew they had one…"
"A prison camp."
Silence reigned. Hands tightened on perched rifles, faces grew pale. Corporal Essex shook his head slowly and spoke with a whisper, "It won't just be a prison camp," The others looked at him quizzically. He stared at Zhaojie, "It'll be a fucking abattoir."