Hope Renewed (68 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Dammit!”

Commodore Peter Grisson raised his binoculars again. The dawn light was painting the Chosen dirigible an attractive pink, a tiny toy airship at the limit of visibility to the north. Far out of range of anything the ships below it could do. They all had the new high-angle antiaircraft guns, but the distance was far too great.

I hate that bloody thing,
he thought, wishing for a storm. You could get some monsters down here south of the main continent, with nothing but the islands between here and the antarctic ice and nothing at all all the way around the planet east or west to break the winds. His ships, some of them at least, could keep station better than that floating gasbag.

But the ocean was like a millpond, only a trace of white at the tops of the long dark blue waves. The
McCormick City
and the
Randall
steamed on, heading east-northeast for their blockade stations off the southern Union coast. They were making eight knots, well below their best cruising speed, because most of the gunboats and naval reserve yachts and whatnot around them couldn’t do any better. Certainly the pathetic hermaphrodite—wood-hulled and iron-armored—relics that made up the other six cruisers couldn’t. Neither of his two best ships were new, but at least they were steel-hulled and armored, and they’d both had extensive refits recently, virtual rebuilding.

Then a light began to flicker on the nose of the Land dirigible. Grisson smoothed his mustache with a nervous gesture.
What would Uncle Maurice do?
he thought, and looked at the captain of the
McCormick City.

The captain lowered his own binoculars. “Coded, of course,” he said neutrally.

“Of course. But Land scout dirigibles carry wireless.” The Land’s armed forces didn’t make as much use of that on land as the Republic’s did, but they had plenty for sea service. “So whoever he’s signaling is
close.
”

Grisson thought for a moment. The rules of engagement and his own orders from the Admiralty gave him virtually complete discretion. One thing Uncle Maurice wouldn’t do was sit with his thumb up his ass waiting for things to happen to him.

I can’t run,
he knew. Intelligence on the Land naval forces in the area and their Unionaise allies was scanty, but whatever they had was likely to have the legs on his motley squadron.
Therefore . . .

“Squadron to come about,” he said, giving the new heading. “Signal
battle stations
and sound
general quarters.
My compliments to Commander Huskinson, and the torpedo-boat destroyers are to deploy. Tell him I have full confidence in his ships’ scouting ability. No ship is to fire unless fired upon or on my order.”

Bells rang, signal guns fired, yeomen hoisted signals to the tripod mast of the
McCormick City.
“Oh, and general signal:
The Republic expects every man to do his duty.
”

Armored panels winched up across the horseshoe shape of the fighting bridge, leaving slits for viewing all around. A signals yeoman bent over his pad near the wireless station, decoding a message.

“Sir. From the destroyers.”

Grisson took the yellow flimsy.

Am under attack by Land heavier-than-air twin engine models stop more than a dozen stop smoke plumes detected to northeast eight ships minimum approaching fast stop.

For a moment Grisson’s mind gibbered at him. The distance to shore was more than twice the maximum range of any Land-made airplane.
Stop that,
he told himself.
It’s happening. Deal with it.

“Signal: Wait for me stop am proceeding your position best speed stop.”

The key of the wireless clicked as the operator rattled it off. Eyes were fixed on him from all over the bridge; he could taste salt sweat on his upper lip. He’d known this moment had to come all his professional life—ever since he was a snot-nosed teenage ensign on this very ship, when Maurice Farr faced down the Chosen at Salini and saved fifty thousand lives.
I expected this, but not so soon.

“Signal to the fleet. Maximum speed.” All of ten knots, if they were to keep together. “Add: We are at war. Expect hostile aircraft before we engage enemy surface forces. Plan alpha. Acknowledge. Stop. Repeat signal until all units have acknowledged receipt.”

Some of the reservists would probably be a little slow on signals, and he didn’t want anyone haring off on his own.

There was a collective sigh, half of relief. “Yeoman,” he went on to the wireless operator, “do you have contact with Karlton?”

“Yessir.”

“Then send: Commodore Grisson to Naval HQ. Southern Fleet in contact with Land and Libertist-Unionaise naval forces. Have received unprovoked attack in international waters. Am engaging enemy. Enemy twin engine heavier-than-air attack aircraft sighted at distances exceeding two hundred nautical miles from shore. Long live the Republic. Grisson, Commander, Southern Fleet. Stop. Repeat until you have acknowledgment.”

“Yessir.”

The rhythm of the engines hammered more swiftly under his feet. The black gang would probably be cursing his name.
Insubordinate bastards,
Grisson thought, the irrelevancy breaking through the tension that gripped his gut. It’d be a relief when the fleet all finally converted to oil-firing and turbine engines. A few score stokers could contribute more disciplinary offenses and Captain’s Mast hearings than the entire crew of a battlewagon.

Neither side was going to have heavy ships here . . . at least, that was what the reports said. The Chosen had a complete squadron of modern protected cruisers in Bassin du Sud: six ships,
von Spee
-class, the name ship and five consorts. Seventy-five hundred tons, turbine engines—coal-fired though, the Land was short of petroleum—four eight-inch guns in twin turrets fore and aft, each with a triple six-inch turret behind it superimposed on a pedestal mount. They carried pom-poms and quick-firers as well, of course. There would be a squadron of twelve torpedo-boat destroyers as well, and the cruisers carried torpedo tubes, too. Land torpedoes were excellent.

“Captain,” he said. “All right; we’re going to be at a disadvantage in weight of gun metal and torpedoes both, but less so in gunpower. We’ll try to maintain optimum firing distance with the heavier ships and slug it out, while the lighter craft with torpedo capacity close in. Gunboats and others are to engage their destroyers.”

“What about our destroyers, sir?”

“I’m going to send them in at the cruisers. They’re outnumbered by their equivalents; we’ll just have to hope one of them gets lucky. A couple of hits could decide the action, one way or another.”

And thank God the practice ammunition allowance was raised last year.
Somebody at Navy HQ had insisted on not putting
all
the increased appropriation into new building.

The
McCormick City
began to pitch more heavily as the northward turn put the sea on her beam. In less than fifteen minutes he could see the smoke from his quartet of three-stacker destroyers, and beyond them a gray-black smudge that must be the enemy. Black dots were circling in the sky over the destroyers, stooping and diving in turn. The little scout ships were curving and twisting to avoid them, their wakes drawing circles of white froth against the dark blue of the ocean. Their pompoms and high-elevation quick-firers were probing skyward, scattering puffs of black smoke against the cerulean blue of the sky.

“Signal to the destroyers,” Grisson said. “Ignore those planes and go for the cruisers.”

Aircraft couldn’t carry enough bombs to be really dangerous, and their chance of hitting a moving target wasn’t big enough to be worth worrying about.

The Land cruisers were hull-up now, their own screen of turtleback destroyers lunging ahead. The smaller Santander craft swarmed forward, disorderly but as willing as a terrier facing a mastiff.

“The signal,” Grisson said quietly, “is
fire
as
you bear.
”

If you only knew how I begged and pleaded to save your sorry ass, Gerta thought, smiling at the dictator of the Union.

At least General Libert had learned to ignore her gender—she suspected he thought of Chosen as belonging to a different species, in any event. He was being polite, today, here in Unionvil. No reason not to; he’d achieved his objectives.

“In short, the Council of the Land expects me to declare war on Santander,” he said dryly. “What incentives do you offer?”

Not shooting you and taking this place over directly, Gerta thought. I used every debt and favor owed me to help convince the General Staff that it wasn’t cost-effective. Don’t prove me wrong.

“General Libert, if you
don’t
, and we lose this war, the Santies have a certain General Gerard waiting in the wings to replace you. With his army, now deployed along the Santander-Union frontier. I very much doubt that the Republic is going to distinguish you from us in
its
formal declaration of war, which should get through the House of Assembly any hour now.”

Libert nodded. He looked an insignificant little lump against the splendors of carved and gilded wood in the presidential palace, beneath the high ceilings painted in allegorical frescos. The place had the air of a church, the more so since Libert had had endless processions of thanksgiving going through with incense and swarming priests; most of his popular support came from the more devout areas of the Union.

His eyes were cold and infinitely shrewd. “And if you
win,
Brigadier, what bargaining power or leverage do I retain?”

“You have your army,” Gerta pointed out. “Expensively equipped and armed by us.”

Libert stayed silent.

“And you’ll have additional territory. I am authorized to offer you the entire area formerly known as the Sierra Democratica y Populara. Provided you assist to the limit of your powers in its pacification, and subject to rights of military transit, mining concessions, investment, and naval bases during and after the war. We get Santander. It’s a fair exchange, considering the relative degrees of military effort.”

Libert’s eyebrows rose. “You offer to turn over a territory you will have conquered yourselves? Generous.”

“Quid pro quo,” Gerta said.
Now, the question is, does Libert realize that we’d turn on him as soon as the Santies are disposed of?
He was more than realistic enough, but he might not understand the absoluteness of Chosen ambition.

Libert sipped from the glass of water before him. “The Sierrans have a reputation for . . . stubbornness,” he said. “I have studied the histories of the old Union-Sierran wars. This may be comparable to the gift of a honeycomb, without first removing the bees and their stings.”

“We intend to smoke out the bees,” Gerta said. “Or to put it less poetically, we intend to depopulate the Sierra, with your assistance. Your people aren’t fond of the Sierrans”—that was an understatement, if she’d ever made one—”and after the war, you can colonize with your own subjects. There will be land grants for your soldiers, estates for your officers, a virgin field for your business supporters—including intact factories, mines and buildings. We’ll leave enough Sierrans for the labor camps.”

“Ah.” Libert’s face was expressionless. “But in the meantime, the Union would need considerable support in order to undertake a foreign war so soon after our civil conflict.”

“Could you be more specific?” Gerta said wearily.

“As a matter of fact, Brigadier . . .”

He slid a folder across the table to her, frictionless on the polished mahogany. She opened it and fought not to choke. Oil, wheat, beef, steel, chemicals, machine tools, trucks, weapons—including tanks and aircraft.

“I’m . . .” Gerta ground her teeth and fought to keep her voice normal. “I’m sure something can be arranged. But as you must appreciate, General, we need to strike
now.
”

“That would indeed be the optimum military course,” Libert said.
And so you must give me what I ask, or risk unacceptable delay,
followed unspoken.

“I will consult with my superiors,” she said. “We must, however, have a definite answer by dawn.”

Or we’ll kill you and take this place over ourselves, equally unspoken and equally well understood.

Gerta rose, saluted, and walked out.

“Why do we tolerate this animal’s insolence?” young Johan Hosten hissed to her as their boot heels echoed in step through the rococo elegance of the palace’s halls.

“Because with Libert cooperating, we gain an additional two hundred thousand troops,” she said. “Most of them are fit only for line-of-communication work, but that’s still nine divisional equivalents we
don’t
have to detach for garrison work. Plus another hundred thousand that we
don’t
have to use to hold down the Union in our rear while we fight the Santies.”

Her aide subsided into disciplined silence—disciplined, but sullen.

I’m going to enjoy our final reckoning with Libert myself,
she thought. Aloud: “I’d rather have three teeth drilled than go through another negotiating session with him, that’s true,” she said.

“Sir . . .”

Gerta looked aside. “Speak. You can’t learn if you don’t ask.”

“Sir, you were against opening our war with Santander this early. Have you changed your mind?”

“That’s irrelevant,” she said. “We’re committed now. Conquer or die.” She sighed. “At least my next job is a straightforward combat assignment.”

Air assault was no longer a radical new idea. Most of the troops filing into the dirigibles nestled in the landing cradles of the base were ordinary Protégé infantry, moving with stolid patience in the cool predawn air. A few of the most important targets still rated a visit from the General Staff Commando, and she’d ended up on overall command. Gerta looked around at the faces of the officers; they seemed obscenely young. No younger than she’d been at Corona, mostly.

It’s déjà vu all over again, she thought to herself.

“That concludes the briefing. Are there any questions?”

“Sir, no sir!” they chorused.

Confident. That was good, as long as you didn’t overdo it. Most of them had more experience than she’d had, her first trip to see the elephant. Policy had been to rotate officers through the war in the Union, as many as possible without doing too much damage to unit cohesion.