Down to the Sea (49 page)

The ship had been hit, the emperor was fleeing, and the word had come.

He silently said the blessing of parting as he walked into the main ammunition locker. Powder bags for the great guns lined the walls, each in its own rack, sealed inside a wooden container. He had done the routine a thousand times, in drill and in battle. Lift the wooden container out of the rack and walk with it out of the powder locker room, the door guard opening and closing the barrier. An assistant loader would take the container and run it into the ammunition hoist; then he would turn, go back, and do it again.

This time he tore the lid off one of the containers, drew a concealed folding knife out from under his shirt and flicked the blade open. The hilt of the knife was cunningly made; a simple twist and a small container popped open, a simple wooden match falling into his open hand.

With the knife he slashed open the powder bag, a cascade of black powder spilling out. He pulled another lid open, did the same, and then a third. The door opened, one of the assistants putting his head in.

“Pava, what…?”

The Novitiate of the Third Order held the match up, and with his thumb flicked it to life. Smiling, he touched it to the stream of black powder pouring out of the torn bag.

Richard Cromwell sat on the beach, drunk from the wine, watching as the fireball soared a thousand feet into the air. The civilians around him had been cheering the spectacle of the air battle and its aftermath as if it had been a chariot race. The explosion sent them into a new frenzy of celebration.

He was disgusted with the whole affair and felt no qualms about relieving them of another sack of wine, which they were more than happy to provide to the hero.

The emperor was dead, and somehow he knew it was Hazin who had done it.

They came just after sunset, five aerosteamers, soaring in from the northwest.

Togo, as always, heard them first. The men around Keane began to stand up, incredulous, several of them laughing, saying it was only a hallucination.

But it was not.

The first aerosteamer, a Falcon, winged over, swooping down on the ravine to the west, stitching it with gatling fire. Men who were so parched that they had not spoken for over a day, cheered hoarsely, pointing, laughing as the tables were turned. The next two were Goliaths, flying straight toward the butte. They came in low, throttling back, and for a second Abe thought that they were going to try some mad landing.

The lead ship skimming barely a dozen feet above them started releasing bundles, the first one almost hitting Abe, the second and third dropped near the hospital area. The fourth one sailed over the edge and disappeared.

The same performance was tried by the second Goliath. The first package fell short, but the second and third and fourth landed safely.

They made three passes, the men scattering with each pass, cursing when one hit too close, but then cheering and waving.

The last two aerosteamers were Falcons as well. They swept around the butte, tracer fire pouring down. One of the Falcons broke away and started back west, engine misfiring, but holding to its course. The two Goliaths buzzed back over one last time, wagging their wings. The men cheered. The bundles were already being broken open, discipline breaking down for a moment as the men leapt upon the full canteens bundled up inside, tearing them open, then gulping down the water. Abe saw cartridge boxes, rations, and a package stamped with the green insignia of the medical corps.

The last Falcon circled back in, a small package with a red streamer tumbled down, landing in the middle of the butte. One of the troopers hobbled over, picked it up and brought it to Abe. The Falcon continued to circle.

Abe tore the red streamer off and opened the package. Inside were half a dozen cigars, weighed down with a package of forty cartridges for a revolver, and a note.

To the commander of the beleaguered force near Carvana Pass,

My sincere apologies, sir, and please consider the cigars enclosed a small token of respect. We have been searching for you for five days. The airship that passed near you this morning reported your presence, the pilot wisely refraining from coming too close out of concern that it might trigger an assault to finish you before help could arrive. I hope its flying by without notice did not adversely affect the morale of your command.

Abe chuckled and shook his head.

A relief column has been dispatched, supported by a company of land ironclads, and should arrive late tomorrow. Airship support will return at dawn and maintain watch over you and also bring in additional supplies.

I must request, sir, a reply, which I believe you will understand given the nature of the situation. If Lieutenant Abraham Schuder Keane is with your command and still alive, would you please respond by waving the red streamer attached to this package. I apologize, sir, for singling out one particular trooper for concern when so many lives are at stake, but I hope you understand my reasons.

I look forward to meeting you, sir, and to personally congratulating you for what has obviously been an heroic stand.

I remain, sir, your ob’d and humble serv’t,

General of the Armies Vincent Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Abe handed the letter to Togo and waited for him to read it.

“I’m tempted not to wave it,” he sighed.

Togo looked at him, grinned, and shook his head. He picked the streamer up from the ground and started to wave it over his head. The Falcon banked over, wagged its wings, then circled back out, turning to the west.

Abe handed the cigars to Togo.

“I don’t smoke,” he announced.

Togo pocketed four of them, fumbled for a match in his haversack, and struck a light, puffing two of the cigars to life. He handed one to Abe.

“You do now.”

Abe sat on the ground, canteen in one hand and a cigar in the other and watched the sun set.

“My God, Abe, you look like hell,” Richard exclaimed as the door into the waiting room swung open and the newly decorated major slowly hobbled in.

Both Adam and Richard came to attention and saluted, the proper ceremony, regardless of rank, for a holder of the Medal of Honor.

Abe, still embarrassed with the whole routine of it all, returned the salute, and then came forward extending his hand.

“Both of you deserved it far more than me.”

“Well, we aren’t president’s sons,” Adam replied.

A hard look came to Abe’s eyes.

“Abe, just joking, that’s all.”

Abe relaxed slightly.

“I told my father I would refuse, but Hawthorne had already written it up and released the news to Gates’s papers.”

Richard Cromwell looked over to the door leading into the reception room of the White House, where a mob of senators and congressmen were gathering to be seen and photographed with the first heroes of the Kazan War. Other knots of officers and enlisted personnel nervously walked about the room: nearly all the surviving Goliath pilots, a sergeant with the 9th Cavalry who had led an action similar to Abe’s, and Rear Admiral Petronius, now admiral of the fleet.

“Look, Abe,” Richard motioned to the door. “This is the reality of it. The Republic needs heroes for this war. Sure, we turned back the first wave, but this is only the beginning. The Kazan’s industrial capability is far beyond us. Their lost battleships can be replaced in months, while it will still take us years. That’s why we’re here in this room today, waiting to get served up.”

He put his hand on Abe’s shoulder.

“I know how you feel and agree. Sergeant Togo should be here, I saw your report on him. I had a copilot,” and he paused for a moment, “well, we all had friends who paid the price for all our mistakes.”

“You of all people, though, should be wearing this,” Abe replied, and he pointed to the Medal of Honor pinned to his left breast. “You were the one who warned us and led that suicidal attack that cleared the way here for Rosovich to do his strike.”

Rosovich nodded in agreement.

“Bearers of bad tidings rarely get medals, Abe,” Richard said, and forced a smile. “There’s still a lot of questions about how I got out, about Hazin,” and the smile disappeared, “about Sean.”

“What was said in Gates’s is absurd,” Adam snapped. Cromwell stiffened slightly.

“Freedom of the press, my friend.”

“Freedom to print lies,” Abe replied forcefully. “Whoever said you abandoned him—”

Richard extended his hand, indicating that Abe should lower his voice.

“Let it rest, Abe. Let it rest.”

Richard looked past Abe and stiffened slightly as Admiral Petronius approached.

Again the ritual of saluting Abe first, and again Abe reddened.

“The Republic’s first father and son team of Medal of Honor winners. A worthy decision, young man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Petronius’s harsh scan swept the three and his features softened.

“Mr. Rosovich, the Gold Star for Valor looks good on you,” Petronius said, “and you, too, Mr. Cromwell.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rosovich replied, a bit embarrassed. “And congratulations on your promotion.”

Petronius shook his head.

“A damn poor way to get it. Bullfinch was the creator of our service, its traditions. A good death, but I would have preferred that stout old man to still be with us.” He sighed. “I just wish this foolishness was over, I want to get back to our command. They’re still out there.”

The battle of Constantine had actually gone into a second day, with the aerosteamer carriers launching a second attack after the retreating battleships were spotted with dozens of transports. But another storm was rolling in, contact was lost after the destruction of two transports and one more hit on a battleship. The carriers had retired back to Constantine where, in the half-destroyed wreckage of the yard, thousands of laborers were swarming over the three precious, remaining ships, refitting them under the direction of Theodor Theodorovich.

The door that Abe had come through opened again, everyone in the room stiffening as the president entered, Kathleen beside him. There was the snapping of salutes and Andrew smiled, offering one in return.

The president’s attention fixed on Petronius, and he headed straight for him. Abe, Richard, and Adam started to respectfully withdraw, but Andrew motioned for them to stay.

“You boys might as well hear this as well. Admiral, I want you to head back to Constantine within the hour, I’ll have an express waiting to take you. Mr. Cromwell, you’ll go with him and take over command of the air groups.” Adam shifted uncomfortably, wanting to speak, but afraid to do so.

Andrew looked over at the diminutive pilot and smiled. “Sorry, son. You’re grounded.”

“Grounded, sir?”

“Personal request from Varinnia Ferguson. You’re part of her team now.”

“Damn Theodor,” Adam whispered, then seeing that Kathleen had overheard, he reddened.

“My apologies, ma’am.”

She laughed softly and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve heard a lot worse from the president, Adam.”

“Mr. Cromwell, my son expressed his feelings to me, quite forcefully I should add, about you receiving the Medal of Honor. I agree with him. I think you understand the reasoning. There’re concerns, some lingering questions in spite of your correct and heroic service.”

“I understand,” Cromwell said quietly.

“I believe in you, Cromwell, I want you to know that.” Cromwell nodded, saying nothing.

Andrew’s features hardened.

“You boys might as well hear this, as well. Admiral, a flyer located part of the Bantag Horde this morning and spotted the Golden Yurt of Jurak on the coast.”

“The enemy fleet?”

Andrew nodded.

“Report of fifty or more transports off-loading troops and supplies. I want you to sortie and try and intercept. Any lingering questions about this war are gone. The Kazan have joined with the Bantag.”

“I pity Jurak,” Abe said.

Andrew looked over at him.

“He’ll get more than he bargained for.”

Andrew nodded.

“You gentlemen head in, I want a moment with Petronius.”

The three comrades turned and, as the doors to the reception room opened, went in together, side by side.

Andrew, smiling sadly, watched them go, then looked back to Petronius.

“Keep your ships alive, Admiral. It’ll be a year or more before we can bring anything new into this fight.”

“I know.”

“And Cromwell. He’s a good man, try to keep him alive. I think we’ll hear a lot more from him.”

Petronius did not reply.

“Good luck out there.”

The two shook hands, and Petronius followed the crowd into the reception hall.

Andrew looked over at Kathleen as she slipped her hand into his.

“Proud of our boy?” he asked.

“He’s changed. Quiet, far too stem, with a look in his eyes that wasn’t there before.”

“War does that,” Andrew sighed.

“Damn all war.”

“Yes, damn all war. But we’re stuck with it.”

“Andrew, can’t you keep him back, the way you did with the Rosovich boy?”

“He must take the same risks I’d ask of anyone else. I’m president, my dear, I can no longer think as his father.”

“God bless Vincent Hawthorne, at least he ignored you for once and sent those extra planes out to look for him.” He smiled.

“I’m glad he did. Now let’s go do our jobs.”

Hazin stood at the railing of his ship, watching as landing ships surged in to shore. The dark mass of thousands of the Shiv were already forming up on the beach, beginning to move up into the hills. By the end of the day the last of them would be ashore, followed by the umen of land cruisers, and then he could withdraw.

He looked back out to sea. Three battleships lay off the bay, the rest of the fleet beyond. Admiral Vasa, now commander of the fleet, was compliant enough in terms of keeping the fleet with him. He wisely knew what might happen otherwise. Three of the surviving cousins had died as well, one of them from quite natural causes, shot by a strafing enemy airship.