Hope Renewed (75 page)
Authors: S.M. Stirling,David Drake
The MTB 109 was skipping forward like a watermelon seed squeezed between thumb and forefinger. One-pound shells pocked the water around it, and the boat’s own forward pom-pom was punching out a stream of bright fire-globes itself. They wouldn’t harm the cruiser, but they might throw off the crews of the bigger ship’s antitorpedo-boat armament. A quick-firer banged from its sponson mount, and a shell threw up a fountain of spray to their left. All the time, Kneally’s mind was estimating distances with the skill of endless practice.
“Ready—”
THUD.
MTB 110 blew up in a globe of yellow flame, its breath like the foretaste of hell.
“Hold her steady!” Kneally yelled, helping the CPO wrestle with the wheel as blast knocked the shallow dish-like hull sideways.
They plunged through the flame in a single searing instant, the spray-plumes of their passage helping to keep it from searing them too badly. MTB 109 was travelling as fast as anything on the oceans of Visager now, bounding forward like a porpoise driven by the power of four hundred horses. A thousand yards, maximum range. Nine hundred. The nose of the 109 was trained precisely on the cruiser’s stern, lined up on the winking light of the pom-pom tub there. The shells drifted out towards him and then snapped by overhead.
“Fire one! Turn her, Chief!”
With a flat bang the launching charge slammed the first torpedo out of its tube. The frail fabric of the torpedo boat shuddered as the silver cylinder arched into the water, its contrarotating propellers already spinning. The boat was heeling to the right, its bow tracing an arc that carried it along the whole length of the enemy warship.
“Fire two! Fire three! Fire four!
Get us the fuck out of here!
”
The night was a chaos of flickering shapes and blinding lights, tracers and searchlights and explosions. Kneally twisted in the coaming to look over his shoulder. White water cataracted up from the side of the cruiser that had been their target—from others, too. He howled a catamount screech, until his teeth clicked painfully shut. This time they had hit the boom much harder, and there was an ominous crackle from the framework of the MTB 109.
But it only had to hold together a little longer. Another light was blinking to port, the guerilla pickup who would smuggle them out through the mountains, if they could reach shore and then avoid the Land patrols. Kneally’s head swiveled, trying to see everything at once. It was still too dark, too tangled with lines and bars of light that bounced across his eyes. If one of the cruiser’s magazines had not exploded behind them he would never have seen the destroyer coming. The actinic light showed it all too clearly: the turtleback forward deck and four billowing smokestacks, and the waves curling back from the cruel knife bows looming over his boat.
Kneally threw himself backward with a yell. A huge impact threw him pinwheeling into the air, and the water hit him like concrete. Somehow he pushed the whirling darkness away and fought his way to the surface, aided by the buoyancy of the cork vest he wore. Prop-wash sucked at him, and he bobbed in the destroyer’s wake. Oily water slopped into his mouth.
“Jesus,” he grunted, almost giggling with incredulous relief at rinding himself alive. “And Dad wanted me to be a hero.”
His viewpoint was too low to see much, but several of the cruisers that had been his squadron’s targets were burning, and he could see a stern rising into the sky with its huge twin bronze screws glinting in the light of fires and searchlights.
That sobered him, and he turned towards the beach and began to swim doggedly. If they didn’t kill him, he’d live . . . and there would be other battles.
He almost missed a stroke. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he was remembering the look on the chief’s face as the destroyer’s bows loomed over them. He might be the only survivor of the dozen crew who’d manned MTB 109.
Kneally shuddered.
Another battle.
“About bloody time,” Gerta said with satisfaction.
Only the last gunpit was still uncovered, and work was going on through the night under the harsh light of the arcs.
It was sunk deep into the cliff face, taking advantage of a natural ravine through the chalky limestone. Labor gangs and explosives had hollowed out an oblong chamber, wider at its rear than at the face of the steep rock. It still smelled of green concrete, but the complex metal mountings of the giant guns were in place, and the two tubes themselves were being fastened in their cradles below. The same great cranes—modified shipbuilding models—that had lowered the guns were now transferring beams and planks of steel that were small only by comparison. Down below pneumatic riveters hammered and arc welders stuttered as hundreds of Protégé laborers and Chosen engineers assembled the intricate jigsaw puzzle into multiple layers of steel. Tomorrow other teams would begin burying it under layer upon layer of concrete laced with rebar and filled with massive rubble from the original excavation, topped with twenty feet of granite quarried from the old Imperial fort.
Gerta inhaled the scent of ozone and scorched metal, fists on hips, pivoting to take in the bustling scene. The other three gunpits were already in place, spread out in a semicircle along the outer edge of the near-island. Each pit was open only along the narrow slit through which the guns would fire—and they would show their muzzles only slightly, and that only when run out for a shoot. Tunnels ran between the pits, and between the pits and their ammunition bunkers, underground barracks and mess halls, fuel stores, generator rooms; but they were all carefully kinked and equipped with blast doors taken from junked battleships to contain internal damage.
“About bloody time is right,” Kurt Wallers said. He was carrying colonel’s tabs, with dual artillery and engineering branch-of-service slashes. “We were complete idiots to wait this long. If we’d had this installation in place when we attacked the Sierrans, that ratfuck in Barclon would never have happened. The Santies couldn’t have put so much as a harbor barge down the Gut without getting it pounded into scrap.”
Gerta shrugged. “My sentiments exactly, Kurt—if that’s any consolation.”
The other Chosen officer hesitated. Gerta slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Spit it out—we
did
go through the Test of Life together, after all. You’ve done a good job here, too, you’re three months ahead of schedule.”
“Well, then . . . your father is the chief of the General Staff. What the fuck was he thinking of?”
Gerta sighed. “He’s chief of the General Staff, not the Chosen Council. They’ve got a bad case of victory disease, and it’s been getting worse since we overran the Empire. That was too easy, and they’ve been dispersing effort on pet projects and hobbyhorses ever since. Sitting back in Copernik, looking at large-scale maps, it looks like we’re conquering the world. The Empire, the Union, now the Sierra.”
“We
are
conquering the world. The problem is
holding
the world. We beat the Imperials because we could concentrate our force. Now—” He made a spreading gesture with his hands.
“Tell me, Kurt. I told the general often enough.
He
lobbied the Council often enough, but their pet projects got in the way. They had this scheduled for the beginning of the war with Santander . . . about five to eight years from now.”
“Well, better late than never,” Kurt said. “This’ll be a significant nail holding down what we’ve conquered. It makes their naval bases at Dubuk and Charsson useless as far as the Gut’s concerned. They’ve been harassing the shit out of us, I can tell you.
And
landing supplies to the animals in the hills virtually at will, since Barclon. That’s getting as bad as it was right after the conquest, or worse; they’re smarter now.”
Gerta nodded. “When can you start test firing?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to do that for another couple of weeks, even on the first pair. The concrete has to set
hard
before we put that much stress on the mountings.”
“How’re the secondary works coming?”
“About a third done.” She followed as he walked inland. “The usual close-in works, machine guns, bunkered field-guns, mortars, minefields, wire, steel spike obstacles. We’ve got half the
Schlenke Emmas
in their pits, too, so pretty soon we can drop high-angle fire on anything that gets too close for the big guns to deal with.”
“You’re getting a lot of work out of these animals,” she said, eyeing the swarming construction site.
“You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” he said. “I’ve done a lot of engineering work in the New Territories, and—”
An aide trotted up. “Sir. Message over the wireless.”
Kurt took it and read, tilting the yellow flimsy to catch the lights. “Attack on Bassin du Sud,” he said. “Considerable damage sustained in beating it off.”
Gerta grunted in surprise. That was communique language for
they whipped our arse.
“
Fuck
it. Damn, damn, if they damage the Southern Squadron badly, there goes our route around the eastern lobe to Marsai.”
Kurt nodded. “Still, it won’t be too bad even so; they can ship straight south from Corona by rail and then through the Gut, now that we’ve got this.”
“
Ya.
” Gerta’s eyes narrowed. “The question is, do the Santies realize that?”
Kurt looked at the flimsy again. “Not many details. I wonder how they got through the minefields? And those howitzers in the fort, they should take care of any ships.”
“Should. But—”
Another messenger. “Sir. The Air Service scout airship
Guthavok
reports it is under attack from Santander heavier-than-air pursuit planes.”
They both looked south by reflex. “At
night?
” Kurt Wallers said incredulously.
Fire blossomed in the night, five thousand feet up and miles to the south.
Wallers began to bark orders. Gerta turned on her heel and trotted back to her scout car, vaulting up the fixed ladder and then into the open compartment with one hand on the rim. Her son was already peering south through the heavy rail-mounted glasses. Gerta looked around; the wireless was fired up and ready, and the vehicle had pressure and was ready to move.
“Signals,” she said. The operator looked up, earphones on and hand poised over the signal key. “To regional HQ in Salini. Fort under heavy attack from Santander seaborne forces, including battleships and amphibious element of unknown strength. Stop. As representative of the General Staff I order repeat order immediate mobilization all available forces and their concentration on this point. Stop. Brigadier Gerta Hosten. Stop. Send until acknowledged.”
The signals technician was sending before Gerta had finished the first sentence. Johann turned to her; by now he’d learned enough to merely raise his brows.
“Ya. If that was wrong, I will be lucky to command a one-company garrison post guarding a bridge,” she said. “But I’d rather risk being a damned fool.”
To the driver: “Get us out of here. Out on the north road, then east towards Salini.”
She pulled the machine-carbine out of its clamps over her seat, checked the flat drum magazine, and reached for the helmet that hung beside it. With a chuff of waste steam, the car pulled out through the growing chaos of the half-built fort.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Aren’t you getting a little senior for commanding from the front?” Admiral Maurice Farr asked quietly.
Jeffrey grinned at his father. “I notice you’re here, sir, and not back in Dubuk.”
Farr shrugged. “An admiral has to command from a ship.”
“And a general has to be where there’s some chance of getting useful information in timely fashion,” Jeffrey replied reasonably. He drew himself up and saluted. “Admiral.”
“General,” the elder Farr replied. “Good hunting, and we’ll give all the support we can.”
Jeffrey turned, swung over the rail, and scrambled down the rope ladder. A young aide tried to assist him as he jumped down into the waiting steam launch.
“I’m not quite decrepit yet, Seimore,” Jeffrey said dryly, and took a swig from his canteen. “We’re better off than the rest of the force, here.”
The men were climbing down netting hung on the sides of the transports and into the waiting flat-bottomed motor barges, or waiting crammed shoulder to shoulder and probably seasick in similar vessels that had sailed with the fleet from Dubuk. The Gut was calm tonight, but the flat-bottomed barges would pitch and sway in a bathtub.
“Let’s go,” Jeffrey said quietly.
The launch swung in towards the shore; it was low and sandy here, in contrast to the cliffs that marked most of this section of the Gut’s northern shore. Low and sandy on either side of the fort that was their objective. The first wave of troops would be going ashore right now, and from the lack of noise, meeting little or no resistance. Well, they’d expected that.
Jeffrey looked at his watch. 0500 hours, nearly dawn. Right about now they should—
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM—
The big guns of the fleet cut loose, firing from west to east in a long, slightly curved line. The great bottle-shaped muzzle flashes lit the scene with a continuous strobing illumination that was brighter than the false dawn. It was still dark enough for the red-glowing dots of the shells to be visible with their own heat, arching up into the sky to fall towards the Chosen.
Dust filtered down onto Kurt Wallers’ head. The gun position shook as twelve- and eight-inch shells landed on the surface above, or hammered deep into the soft limestone of the cliffs.
I built well,
he thought. Aloud: “Well, the enemy has provided us with an aiming point. Return fire.”
“But sir!” someone protested. “The mountings—”
“Are not hard-set yet,” he replied. “Nevertheless, you have your orders.”
With hydraulic smoothness, the muzzle of the great gun began to move downward in its cradle.
Ten miles outside Salini, John Hosten grinned into the low red light of dawn. He washed down a mouthful of half-chewed hardtack with a swig from his canteen and slapped the cork back into it. It was like eating pieces of a clay flowerpot, but it kept you going, and if you were careful it didn’t break your teeth. The air smelled of dew-wet rock and aromatic shrub and old sweat from the clothes of the guerillas around him. “Quick of them,” he said. “They’re in a hurry.” The road through the low rocky hills was quite good, not exactly a paved highway, but thirty feet wide and cut out of the hillside with generous shoulders and ditches. Right now it was crowded with a convoy. Two light tanks in the front, the Land copy of the Santander Whippet, trucks crammed with infantry, more trucks pulling field-guns and pompoms and supplies, more infantry, some more tanks . . .
. . . and a forty-degree slope on either side of the road.
“That is their mobile reaction force,” Arturo said.
John nodded. Not even Santander could afford to give all its infantry and guns motor transport; the Land had roughly the same output of vehicles, but a much bigger army and fewer wheels per head.
The lead tank was near the ferroconcrete bridge. “Now?” John said.
Arturo nodded. “They are in a
great
hurry,” he said, smiling like something with tentacles, and pressed the plunger beside him.
The explosions at the bottom of the bridge pylons weren’t very spectacular, although the sound echoed off the stony slopes. A puff of dust and smoke—pulverized concrete and plain dirt—and the uprights heaved, twisted, and sank slowly at an increasing tilt. The flat slab roadway crumbled in chunks as its support was removed, falling down towards the bottom of the gorge and the dry-season trickle that ran there. The first tank went with it, sparks flying as its treads worked backwards.
Arturo laughed at the sight. Even then, John had time to be slightly chilled at the sound. Nearly five hundred feet to fall, knowing that when you hit—
The tank cracked open like an eggshell on the boulders, and the dust of its impact was followed seconds later by a fireball as the fuel caught. Shells shot out of the fireball, trailing smoke, as the ammunition cooked off.
As ye sow, so shall ye reap,
Raj said relentlessly.
Remember what the Imperials were like before the Chosen came. As they are now, the Chosen made them.
Rifles and machine guns opened up on the stalled convoy, and mortars as well. A huge secondary explosion threw trucks tumbling as a shell landed in a truckload of ammunition, or perhaps on the limber of a field-gun. Birds rose in clouds as the racket of battle replaced the early morning calm. Order spread among the chaos below, soldiers taking cover and officers spreading them out. The first were already beginning to work their way upslope. Men died and rolled downward; others took their place. The four-pounder guns of the light tanks coughed and coughed again, and their machine guns beat the slope with an iron hail.
Below John was a guerilla sniper, invisible even at ten yards in his camouflage blanket, a net sewn with strips of cloth in shades of ochre, gray, and brown. The muzzle twitched slightly, and the rifle snapped.
Scratch one Chosen officer, probably, John thought.
Arturo was examining the scene below with his binoculars. “We cannot hold them long,” he warned. “If we try, the rear elements of the convoy will work around behind us—there are trails, and their maps are good.”
“No, we can’t,” John said. “But they were in a
great
hurry . . . and this is not the only ambush.”
Arturo smiled again. This time John joined him.
“Who the
fuck
does he think he’s shooting at?” Johan Hosten said, pulling himself erect in the open-topped armored car and glaring after the two-engine ground attack aircraft that was hedgehopping away.
Gerta grinned at her son’s indignation, although that
had
been a bit of a nerve-wracking surprise. There were fresh lead smears on the flanks of her war-car.
“At Santies, of course,” she said.
Granted, there was a bloody great Land sunburst painted on the rear deck of the war-car, but she knew from personal experience how hard it was to see anything accurately when you were doing a strafing run in combat conditions.
“Only thing more dangerous than your own artillery is your own air force, boy,” she said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Especially in a ratfuck like this where nobody knows where anyone is, including themselves.”
It’s a relief in a way, having nothing but a fight on my hands.
They turned a bend in the road. “And speaking of Santies—”
The eastbound road wound through rolling ground covered in olive groves. Men in brown uniforms were ahead of them, and two light-wheeled vehicles were on the gravel surface of the road. They had whip antennae bobbing above them. Some sort of command group, then.
“Driver! Floor it!” Gerta barked, pulling a grenade from a box clipped to the inside of the sloping armored side of the war-car.
He did. The five-ton vehicle was too heavy to actually leap ahead, but it accelerated, more slowly than a newer model with an IC engine; on the other hand, the steam was almost silent. The Santies noticed only just before Johan opened up with the forward machine gun, walking bursts across the men grouped around the hood of one of the light cars.
Gerta shouted wordlessly as the prow of the war-car rammed one vehicle aside, crumpling the frame and knocking it into the ditch. She tossed the grenade at the wreckage and followed it with a spray of pistol-caliber bullets from her machine carbine. Jumping with combat-adrenaline, her eyes picked out one face/body/movement gestalt as the man leaped for cover behind a rock. She fired, twisted, cursed as her son at the machine gun blocked her line of sight, grabbed at another grenade and threw it.
Return fire pinged off the riveted armor plates of the car, making the crew duck, and then they were past.
“Keep going!” she said, raising her head for a look.
“Jesus!”
Jeffrey raised his head, coughing in the plume of dust left behind by the turtle-shaped Chosen vehicle; some sort of six-wheeled armored car. As it turned the corner and zipped out of sight ahead, an arm appeared over the side of the hull with one finger extended from a clenched fist, and pumped in an unmistakable gesture.
Wounded men screamed. For an instant everyone else stayed frozen and flat to the earth, waiting for the follow-up.
“Keep moving!” Jeffrey said aloud. “That was a straggler.”
“
Merde,
” Henri muttered beside him, levering himself up with the butt of his rifle.
My sentiments exactly,
Jeffrey thought as he took stock. Two regimental commanders out of it, and one of the priceless radios.
“Runner,” he said, “tell their seconds what’s happened, and that I have full confidence in them. Somebody get that fire out.” The wrecked car was sending licking flames and black smoke upward, just the sort of marker a cruising Land Air Service pilot would need. “And let’s get back to work,” he went on calmly.
His mouth was full of gummy saliva. That had been far too sudden, and far too close. A few of the faces that bent over the map with him were pale beneath their coating of summer dust, but nobody was visibly panicky.
The map showed the bulge of coastline that held the fort they were attacking. “We’ve just about closed the circle around the landward side,” he said. “Now, Colonel McWhirter, you’re going to dig in along this line and hold them off us. The partisans are doing a good job of slowing them down, but when they hit, it’ll be hard. The rest of us will press on the perimeter.”
“Going to cost,” someone commented. “They’re expecting us, by now.”
Jeffrey shrugged. “We’ll keep their attention. They don’t have much of a garrison there yet, mostly construction battalions. With a little luck, the Resort Brigade will do its job.”
Major Steven Durrison, Fifth Mountain Regiment—known familiarly in the Army of the Republic as the Resort Brigade, since so many mountain-climbing hobbyists filled its ranks—looked up the rest of the gully.
Not much of a climb,
he thought. About a sixty-degree slope, the natural rock overlain with rubble. The enemy had evidently been dumping construction fill down it, since it led up to the lip of the plateau. From the way they’d cut footings into the sides, they’d probably planned to build something here. They hadn’t had time.
And they were otherwise occupied right now. More shells trundled across the sky to burst on the plateau tops above. The ships out in the Gut looked like toys at this distance, a fleet a child might sail in his bathtub. The earthquake rumble and shudder of the earth under his body showed how out of scale distance made the scene. Rock and concrete fountained over the cliffs, past the firing slits of the heavy guns, to land on the beach below. More shaking through the rock beneath him; he tried to imagine what it was like to be caught in the open up there, and failed.
If that doesn’t keep their heads down, nothing will.
The mountaineer looked back over his shoulder; men were strung out down nearly to the beach, along the line of rope secured by iron stakes driven into the rock by the advance element. Most were armed with the new submachine guns, for close in work, or with pump-action shotguns, and festooned with bandoliers, satchel charges, coils of rope, and pitons.
“Lieutenant,” he called, “we’ll start to work our way across from there.”
He pointed; no climber could mistake what he meant, a long shadow slanting upward across the cliff-face to their right. “Signaller.”
The heliograph squad had set up a little way down the ravine. The sergeant in charge of the squad looked up.
“You’ve got contact with the flagship?”
“Yessir.”
Durrison nodded, hiding his relief. The alternative was colored rockets. That would
work,
but even with dozens of heavy shells landing up above, someone was likely to notice. Heliograph signals—light reflected off mirrors—were effectively line of sight. None of the enemy would see his going out.
“Send: ‘Am proceeding with Phase Two.’”
About bloody time,
Maurice Farr thought, lowering his binoculars. The signals station were scribbling on their pads, but he could still read code himself.
The
Great Republic
twisted and heeled in the water as her broadside fired. Light flashed in return from the upper third of the cliffs, and three seconds later the whole eighteen-thousand-ton bulk of the battleship shuddered and rang like a giant gong struck with a sledgehammer. Farr blinked at the fountain of sparks as the shell struck her main belt armor.
“Sir!” It was Damage Control, speaking to the flagships captain. “Flooding in compartment C3. That one hit us below the waterline.”
Gridley nodded. “Get them to work on it,” he said, “Containment measures.”
That meant sealing off the affected area behind the watertight doors, hopefully not before they got the personnel out of it. C3 was unpleasantly close to the A turret magazines as well.
Those guns certainly have punch,
he thought. Eight-inch, but fired with a twelve-incher’s powder charge, and an extra-long barrel. The velocity was unbelievable.
Much faster and you could fire shells into orbit.
“Sir.” This time to the fleet commander. “Sir,
Templedon City
reports that they’ve got the fires out and stabilized by counterflooding.”
A heavy cruiser. “What speed can they make?”
