Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 126: Honorable Field Battle

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Nearly two months had passed since Ragnar concluded his "Joint Venture" with the Andalusians.

Since then, the first shipment of Naphtha had entered the secure warehouses of City Titan.

During this time period, the Arab merchants, eager to get their hands on Ragnar's crucible steel, had made their round trip with enough gold dinars to make the Directorate the most liquid entity in the British Isles.

However, the most important part of what had happened during this fiscal quarter was the Frankish Crusade's progress. They had gathered a massive fleet in Calais.

They would soon reach the white cliffs of Dover, where they intended to "restructure" the heathen lands. Ragnar, however, intended to lay a trap for them on the beaches.. a trap that would violate several future Geneva Conventions.

Ragnar was once more tasked with the responsibility to go to war; however, this time, it would be a "Corporate Defense Operation."

At the moment, he was standing in his quarters, dressed in his "Executive Protection" gear.

It was no longer the mismatched mail of a raider. He wore a three-quarter blackened steel plate harness, stamped with the serial number 001.

Under the armor was a padded gambeson of grey wool. Over his hands were an exquisite pair of articulated steel gauntlets, designed to grip a lever or a sword with equal precision.

Over his cuirass, he wore a grey sash and a heavy leather belt that contained not only his sabre but a holster for his most prized prototype: the Six-Cylinder Revolving Crossbow.

He no longer wore the horned helmet of the stereotypes.

He wore a "Mark II" Sallet helm with a visor that could be raised for negotiations and lowered for liquidations.

Seeing her husband geared up for the hostile takeover, Gyda could not help but frown. Her blonde hair was tied back in a severe, practical bun, secured with a steel pin.

She looked every inch the Chief Financial Officer of an empire. She held baby Magnus in her hands, pouting slightly at Ragnar, who was leaving the headquarters so soon after the baby's first tooth audit.

Ragnar closed the distance between her and himself, the steel of his greaves clanking against the stone floor. He brought her into his metallic embrace before kissing her with the passion of a man who knows the market is volatile.

After releasing his grasp, Gyda spoke the words in her heart.

"Do not let them depreciate our assets, Ragnar. And bring back their armor. We can melt it down."

Ragnar nodded with a serious expression.

"I will issue a total liquidation, Gyda. Grandmaster Roland killed a child for a toy. He damaged the brand. I am going to foreclose on his entire bloodline."

After bidding farewell to his CFO and successor, Ragnar walked out into the Governor's Courtyard, where he did not mount a horse. Horses were inefficient for long-haul transport.

Instead, he walked to the Titan Central Station.

Waiting for him was the War Train. The "Screaming Kettle" had been up-armored with bolted steel plates.

Behind it were twenty flatbed cars, loaded with "Iron Gear" soldiers, crates of "Spicy Mix," and the massive, lead-lined tank of Naphtha.

Standing before Ragnar were roughly 5,000 men. 3,000 were the elite "Iron Gear" infantry, clad in uniform grey and black plate, armed with heavy pikes and repeating crossbows.

The other 2,000 were the "Interns" - Saxon levies who had been drilled in trench warfare until they could dig a foxhole in three minutes flat.

When compared to the army of the Franks.. which was projected to be 25,000 knights and peasant zealots. Ragnar's forces were numerically inferior. But Ragnar knew that one machine gun was worth a thousand spears.

He didn't have a machine gun yet, but he had a Flamethrower Train, which was arguably scarier.

Ragnar climbed onto the tender of the locomotive. He didn't give a speech about Valhalla. He gave a speech about Results.

"Employees of the Directorate!" Ragnar shouted, his voice amplified by a brass cone. "The Franks are coming to burn your homes! They want to take your dental plan! They want to break your pumps! Are we going to let them disrupt the supply chain?"

"No!" the army roared, slamming their weapons against the flatbed cars.

"Then let us go," Ragnar grinned, pulling the whistle cord.

WHOOOOO-WEEEEEEE!

With a hiss of steam and a grind of metal, the War Train began to move.

The citizens of City Titan lined the tracks, cheering not for a king, but for the man who gave them jobs. They threw coal onto the tracks as a sign of support.

Riding in the armored cab alongside Ragnar was General Bjorn and the Andalusian Vizier Al-Hakam.

Al-Hakam looked pale. He was holding onto a safety handle with a white-knuckled grip as the train accelerated to its top speed of 25 miles per hour.

"Director," Al-Hakam shouted over the roar of the firebox. "Are you sure about this strategy? If they land at multiple points, we will be flanked. The train cannot turn sideways!"

Ragnar checked his pocket watch. They were on schedule.

"The Franks are arrogant, Vizier. They follow the Code of Chivalry. That means they will land at the widest beach, deploy their banners, and wait for us to meet them in an 'Honorable Field Battle'."

Ragnar pointed to the map tacked to the wall of the cab.

"We are going to Sandwich. The beach there is narrow. It is flanked by marshes. It is a natural bottleneck."

"And?" Al-Hakam asked, eyeing the massive tank of Naphtha sloshing behind them.

"And," Bjorn grunted, sharpening his axe, "we have already sent the Interns ahead to prepare the 'Welcome Mat'."

"The Welcome Mat?"

Ragnar smiled.

"Barbed wire. Hidden trenches. And pipes buried in the sand."

Al-Hakam looked at the Viking industrialist with a mixture of horror and awe.

"You intend to pump the Greek Fire... under the sand?"

"Hydraulic pressure," Ragnar explained, as if discussing a garden hose. "When the heavy cavalry charges across the beach... we open the valves. The ground itself will burn."

Ragnar looked out the window as the green fields of England blurred by.

"I tried to be peaceful, Vizier. I offered them trade. But they want a Crusade. So, I am going to show them the difference between Faith and Firepower."

The train thundered south, a dragon of iron and steam racing to meet the dragons of flesh and blood. The "Corporate Defense Operation" had begun. And Ragnar was ready to balance the books.

Later that day, near the Coast of Kent

The train slowed as it reached the Forward Operating Base at Sandwich. The town was a ruin.. burned by Grandmaster Roland weeks ago but the Vikings had repurposed the rubble.

Ragnar stepped off the train. The smell of the sea mixed with the smell of wet ash.

Princess Elfwynn was waiting for him. She looked tired, her face smudged with dirt, but her eyes were bright. She held a roll of blueprints.

"Director," she saluted. "The preparations are complete. The 'Bunker Pattern Beta' earthworks are finished. The drainage ditches are dug."

"And the pipeline?" Ragnar asked.

Elfwynn pointed to the beach. The tide was out. Faint lines could be seen in the sand where the Interns had buried the iron pipes connected to the main pump house.

"Concealed," Elfwynn confirmed. "We tested the pressure. It holds."

"Good work, COO," Ragnar nodded. "Take the Interns to the rear. I want the 'Iron Gear' on the heavy crossbows."

Ragnar walked to the edge of the earthworks. He looked out at the English Channel.

On the horizon, hundreds of sails appeared. Crimson crosses on white fields. The Holy League.

They were beautiful. They were majestic. They were coming to kill everyone!

"Look at them," Bjorn growled, standing beside Ragnar. "So many of them. They must have twenty thousand men."

"Twenty-five thousand," Ragnar corrected, counting the masts. "Heavy cavalry in the front. Mercenary crossbowmen in the rear."

Al-Hakam joined them, looking through a brass telescope.

"That is the banner of Grandmaster Roland," the Vizier noted. "And there... the banner of the Count of Flanders. You are fighting the flower of European knighthood, Director."

Ragnar pulled his revolver crossbow from its holster. He spun the cylinder..

"They are fighting the Industrial Revolution, Vizier," Ragnar said softly. "And they are about to find out that chivalry is not bulletproof."

Ragnar turned to his signalman.

"Sound the alarm. General Quarters. And tell Leif to prime the pump."

As the Frankish fleet drew closer, expecting a terrified peasantry, they saw only a silent, grey line of earthworks.

And behind it, a single column of black smoke rising from a machine they could not understand.