Hope Renewed (69 page)

“One final thing. The Sierrans have much the same line of bluster that the animals did here, before we conquered the Empire. They have a word for it in their language . . .
machismo,
I think it is. There’s one crucial difference between the two, though.”

She looked around, meeting their eyes. “The Sierrans actually
mean
it. They couldn’t organize an orgy in a whorehouse, but they’re not going to roll over at the first tap of the whip either. Don’t fuck up because you expect them to run.”

“Sir, yes Sir!”

As they scattered to their units she wondered briefly if they’d take the warning seriously. Probably. Most of them had enough experience not to take the legends about Chosen invincibility too literally.

“All over again,” she murmured aloud.

“Sir?” her aide said.

Fairly formal considering that they were alone and that Johan Hosten was her eldest son, but they were in a military situation, not a social one. And Johan was still stiffly conscious of being an adult, just past the Test of Life. She remembered that feeling, too.

“It reminds me of the drop on Corona,” she said.

Half my lifetime ago. Why do I get this feeling that I keep doing the same things over and over again, only every time it’s more difficult and the results are less? All the same, down to the smell of burnt diesel oil. The tension was worse; now she knew what they were heading into. She buckled on her helmet, slung the machine-carbine and began drawing on thin, black leather gloves as they walked through the loading zone. Wood boomed under their boots as they climbed the mobile ramp to a side-door of the gondola built into the hull beneath the great gasbags. Crew dodged around them as she walked back to the main cargo bay; Horst Raske wasn’t in charge this time, he was with the new aircraft carrier working-up with the Home Fleet based out of Oathtaking.

What a ratfuck,
she thought.
The Santies build aircraft carriers, and we waste six months in a pissing match over who gets to build ours.
The Councils had finally decided, in truly Solomonic wisdom—she’d read the Christian Bible as part of her Intelligence training—to split the whole operation. Building the hull was to be Navy; the airplanes and the personnel, plus logistics, training and operations, were done by the Air Council. The Navy would command when the fleet was at sea.
How truly good that’s going to be for operational efficiency,
she thought. At least she’d managed to persuade Father to appoint Raske, who didn’t confuse territorial spats and service loyalties with duty to the Chosen.

There were a company of the General Staff Commando in the cargo bay, plus a light armored car on a padded cradle that rested on a specially strengthened section of hull. It was one of the new internal-combustion models, and someone had the starter’s crank ready in its socket at the front, below the slotted louvers of the armored radiator. Somehow it looked out of place in the hold of an airship, a brutal block of steel in a craft at once massive and gossamer-fragile. They were tasked with taking out the Sierran central command, such as it was. Although she frankly doubted whether that would help or hinder the resistance.

“Make safe,” she said. “Lift in five minutes.”

They squatted, resting by the packsacks and gripping brackets in the walls and floor. Gerta’s station was by an emergency exit; that gave her a view out a narrow slit window. Booming and popping sounds came from above, as hot air from the engine exhausts was vented into the ballonets in the gasbags. More rumbling from below as water poured out of the ballast tanks. The long teardrop shape of the airship quivered and shook, then bounced upwards as the grapnels in the loading cradles released.

The dirigibles were out in force this time; she could see them rising in ordered flocks, one after another turning and rising into the lighter upper sky. The air was calm, giving the airship the motion of a boat on millpond-still water, no more than a slight heeling as it circled for altitude. Down below the airbase was a pattern of harsh arc lights across the flat coastal plain on the Gut’s northern shore. The surface fleet with the main army wasn’t in sight. They’d left port nearly a day before, to synchronize the attacks. There were biplane fighters and twin-engine support aircraft escorting the airships; as she peered through the small square window in the side of the hull she could see a flight of them dropping back to refuel from the tankers at the rear of the fleet.

You put on a safety line and climbed out on the upper wing with the wind trying to pitch you off—sometimes you did, and had to haul yourself back on. In a single-seater, someone from the airship had to slide on a body-hoop down the flexing, whipping hose. Then you had to fasten the valves, dog them tight, and keep the tiny airplane and huge airship at precisely matching speeds, because if you didn’t the hose broke, or the valve tore out of the wing by the roots. If that happened the entire aircraft was likely to be drenched in half-vaporized gasoline and turn into an exploding fireball when it hit the red-hot metal surfaces of the engine. . . .

She raised her voice: “Listen up!

They were over the surface fleet now; hundreds of transports from ports all along the northern shore of the Gut, escorted by squadrons of cruisers and destroyers. The ships cut white arrowheads on the green-blue water six thousand feet below.

“Magnificent,” Johan Hosten whispered.

This time Gerta nodded. It
was
a magnificent accomplishment, throwing a hundred thousand troops and supporting arms into action, fully equipped and briefed, at such short notice.

But we were supposed to fight Santander in another five to eight years. With our new battleship fleet ready, and another fifty divisions and a thousand tanks. Now . . . we’re reacting, not initiating. The enemy should be responding to our moves, not us to theirs.

“Thirty minutes to drop!”

“This is a new one,” Jeffrey shouted over the explosions.

“Too damned familiar, if you ask me,” John said grimly, checking his rifle.

It was a Sierran-made copy of the Chosen weapon. They’d managed a few improvements, mostly because everything was expensively machined. No cost-cutting use of stampings
here,
by God—which meant that only about half of the Sierrans had them. The rest were making do with a tube-magazine black-powder weapon, also a fine example of its type.

“I’ve been caught in far too many goddamned Land invasions.”

“Yes, but it’s the first time we’ve been in one
together
,” Jeffrey pointed out. There was gray in his rust-colored hair, but the grin took years off him.

“Let’s go make ourselves useful.”

“Yup. No hiding in embassies this time.” Jeffrey sobered. “Damned bad news about Grisson. He was a good man; Dad thought a lot of him.”

“Going to be a lot of good men die before this one’s over,” John said.

“Hopefully not us. . . . Watch it!”

The room shook from a near-miss. Dust and bits of plaster fell around them. The Santander embassy was in coastal Barclon, where most of the business was done, rather than in inland Nueva Madrid, the ceremonial capital. Right now that meant it was within range of the eight-inch guns of the offshore Land cruisers, as well as the aircraft. The Sierran antiaircraft militia was putting a lot of metal into the air; too much for dirigibles to sail calmly overhead and drop their enormous bombloads, which was something to be thankful for.

An embassy staffer ran down the stairs. Her face was paler than the plaster dust that spattered her face and dress, and she waved a notepad.

“They’re dropping troops on Nueva Madrid,” she said, her voice rising a little. “And they’re attacking from north and south over the mountains, too. Sanlucar has fallen—the last message said shells were bursting inside the fortress.”

John’s eyebrows went up. That was the main fortress-city guarding the passes from the old Empire south into the Sierra.

The staffer went on: “And the Chosen Council has issued a statement, demanding that we declare ourselves strictly neutral in the Sierran-Land war, and ‘cease all hostile and unfriendly actions.’”

Ambassador Beemer nodded, checking the old-fashioned revolver in the shoulder holster beneath his formal morning coat.

“Not a chance,” he said. He looked up at John and Jeffrey. “Admiral Farr is never going to forgive me. I should have sent you home yesterday.”

“We both thought the Chosen would wait until the Sierrans voted,” John said.

“Why? It was obvious which way it was going to go.” He hesitated. “They’ll be landing troops here?”

“Sure as they grow corn in Pokips,” Jeffrey said. “Coordination is a strong point of theirs. In fact, I’d give you odds they’re landing on both sides of the city right now.”

Nobody was going to fall for the “merchantmen” full of soldiers, not after the attack on Corona. There wasn’t any way to prevent ships loitering offshore, though.

“Then I suppose . . . well, according to diplomatic practice, the Chosen should intern us and exchange us for their own embassy personnel in Santander City.”

Beemer didn’t sound very confident. John nodded. “Sir, I’d recommend suicide before falling into Chosen hands—and that’s assuming you get past the kill-crazy Protégés in the first wave. If the Chosen win, international law won’t exist anymore, because there will be only one nation. And if they lose, they don’t expect to be around to take the blame.”

Beemer’s head turned, as if calculating their chances. North and south the armies of the Land were pouring over the mountain passes into the Sierra. West was the Chosen . . .

“Sir, I made arrangements, just in case. If we can get to the docks . . .”

Beemer started to object, then nodded. “You’re a resourceful young man,” he said mildly. “I’ll get our people together.”

Luckily there were only about half a dozen Santander citizen staff on hand; most of them had been sent home last week, when the crisis began. None of the Sierran employees were here; they’d all headed for their militia stations and the fighting half an hour ago. Two of the embassy limousines could hold them all, with a little crowding. John took his seat beside Harry Smith, sitting up on one knee with the rifle ready.

“Just like old times, eh?” he said.

Smith grinned tautly. “Barrjen is going to be mad as hell,” he said. “I talked him into staying home for this one.”

Another salvo of heavy shells went by overhead just as the limousines cleared the gates of the embassy compound. They struck upslope, and blast and debris rattled off the thin metal of the cars’ roofs. John had a panoramic view of Barclon burning, pillars of familiar greasy black smoke rising into the air. He could also see the Land naval gunline out in the harbor, cruising slowly along the riverside town. There weren’t any battleships, but there
were
a couple of extremely odd-looking ships, more like huge armored barges than conventional warships. Each had a barbette with a raised edge in the center and the stubby muzzle of a heavy fortress howitzer protruding from it.

Well, I guess that explains what happened to the harbor forts,
John thought. Coastal forts were designed to shoot it out with high-velocity naval rifles, weapons with flat trajectories. They’d be extremely vulnerable to plunging fire.
We’d better move fast.

estimated time to chosen landing in barclon itself is less than thirty minutes,
Center said.

Land aircraft were circling the city, spotting for the naval guns. John looked up at them with a silent snarl of hatred.

I’d have sworn that dirigible aircraft carrier idea was completely worthless, he thought.

It was, lad,
Raj said quietly.
At a guess, I’d say they retreated to something less ambitious—using the dirigibles to carry fuel and arranging some sort of midair hookup.

correct. probability approaches unity.

The streets were surprisingly free of crowds; what there were seemed to be moving to some purpose: armed men heading for the docks or the suburbs to the south, women with first-aid armbands or the civil-defense blue dot. Smith kept his foot on the throttle and made good use of the air horn. More barges were appearing from behind the Land fleet, coastal craft hastily converted to military use. They were black with men. Behind them lighter ships, gunboats and destroyers, moved in to give point-blank support to the landing parties with their quick-firers and pom-poms.

“Here!” John shouted.

The limousines lurched to a stop and the Santander citizens tumbled out, white-faced but moving quickly. Jeffrey and Henri brought up the rear; John stopped to drop grenades down the fuel tanks of both. Their pins were pulled, but the spoons were wrapped in tape. John hoped some Land patrol was using the cars by the time the gasoline dissolved the adhesive tape.

They had stopped in front of a boathouse in the fishing section of the port, a typical long shed with doors opening onto the water where a boat could be hauled out on rollers. This one was more substantial than most but just as rundown.

“Do you think a boat can make it out past the Land Navy?” Beemer asked dubiously.