Men of War (18 page)

It was indeed getting to the time for departure. For days he had agonized about this moment.

The engines on most of the airships were now turning over, shattering the predawn quiet as pilots revved each one up in turn, let them run full out for several minutes, then throttled them back down to idle.

Vincent was eager to be off. He had already said his good-byes to his family; it was part of his nature never to let that side of his life show anymore. There was no sense in going over the plan one more time. Vincent had conceived part of it, especially the land ironclad assault out of Tyre. He knew it far better than Andrew.

The salute was casual, as if he was leaving for morning inspection of a company.

“It’ll work, sir,” Vincent said. “I promise you that.”

Andrew nodded, and the boy was off, heading to his airship, his chosen staff following. He had abandoned his cane and walked slowly, with a pronounced limp. Now it was just Hans and Varinna and she mumbled something about going to check one of the ships and left the two alone.

Hans sighed and slowly sat down on the grass, motioning for Andrew to join him.

Hans smiled and Andrew suddenly felt a terrible longing, somehow to turn the clock back, to make it all as it once was so many years before, and to hide from the knowledge of all that would be. Hans had aged, his hair going to white, his teeth crooked, stained dark yellow, several of them gone or turned to black, his skin no longer tanned and leathery but now waxy. He had never really admitted to himself just how much the years of prison had changed Hans. In so many ways they had softened him, made him more open to saying what was in his heart, but be had lost pis tireless vitality as well. Yet, at this moment he felt as if Hans was summoning back that strength for one more effort.

“The war’s lost, Andrew. We’ve fought the good fight for God knows how many years. We’ve held three empires at bay, but now they’re closing in. But in order for them to do that they had to change, too, and that is where they are vulnerable.

“Before, it was like striking at a nest of bees. We had to cut them down one at a time until there were none left. Andrew, we’ve forced them in a way to become like us, and in so doing we now have the opening. We can reach into the nest, crush the queen, and the eggs and the nest dies.”

Hans became animated as he spoke, his eyes locked on Andrew’s.

“Don’t you think he’s figured that,” Andrew replied, “and taken the necessary precautions?”

“Surprise will be on our side. We maintain that element, and we win. The part of the plan involving Vincent seems like folly, but it will be the focus for just long enough that it will keep them off-balance. Then the rest of it goes in. He’ll suspect the air support is for Vincent. By the time he realizes, we’ll be on him.

“We’ve got to do this, Andrew; otherwise, it isn't just us who lose, it’s the Chin, it’s the entire world. Now that’s something I’m willing to risk my life for. The question is, now do you have the guts to risk it as well.”

Andrew looked over angrily at Hans.

“It isn’t a question of my courage.”

“Yes it is. The courage to let go. If it wasn’t me going, maybe it’d be easier somehow.”

He wanted to deny it. Lord knows how many he had sent to certain death going all the way back to his own brother. But Hans was different.

Andrew lowered his head.

“Yes, damn it. I think when that aerosteamer takes off that is it, I never see you again. I can deny it, say it’s the committing of our remaining air fleet to a mad venture. But it’s really you.”

“And I am the only one that can lead it.”

Andrew finally nodded.

“Go.” He whispered.

Hans leaned out, his hand tentatively taking Andrew’s, and then he grasped it tight.

Andrew looked up to see tears in his friend’s eyes.

“You’ll do fine, son, just fine.”

Andrew started to break. What could he say, how could he say it? The words finally spilled out of him, contained for so long.

“I love you, Hans, as I loved my own father.”

Hans smiled.

“I know. We’ve always loved each other, you as the son I never had; it’s just that the way we both are, who we are, makes it impossible to say what we feel.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, eyes locked. There was such a flood of memories for Andrew, of Antietam, the lonely nights on picket, the cold winter mornings sharing a cup of coffee, the dusty marches, the moments of fear and of triumph, the pain of losing him and the indescribable joy of finding him again.

“And Hans.”

“Yeah?”

He had not breathed a word of it to anybody over the last week, but now was the true moment of letting go, of turning back the lie he had whispered at Capua. He knew what had to be done … and both of them were soldiers who understood that.

He unbuttoned the top of his uniform, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Hans.

“I want you to go all the way,” Andrew whispered.

Hans, looking straight into his eyes, understanding what Andrew was asking, simply nodded.

“This is my written authorization in case Jack or anyone else disagrees. Hans, you’ve got to go all the way with this one, no half measures.”

Hans smiled. “You know I would have done it anyway.”

“I know that.” Andrew sighed.

“It’s just you wanted me to know you were behind my decision.”

Andrew nodded, unable to speak.

Hans patted Andrew on the shoulder.

/ “Like I’ve always said, I’m proud of you, son,” he said, hesitating, “and thank you. Ever since the day I escaped, leaving my comrades behind, it has haunted me. I have to do this.”

There was a moment of silence between the two, both lost in their memories.

“I think they’re waiting,” Hans said gruffly, trying to hide the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

Andrew finally looked over his shoulder and saw all who were waiting, standing respectfully, some with heads lowered. All was silent except for the aerosteamer engines powering up, propellers cutting the still morning air.

Andrew nodded and ever so slowly let go of Hans’s hand. Andrew tried to smile, fighting to hold on to what little control he had left.

He stood up shakily, Hans grunting as he stood as well.

“Well, they sure as hell haven’t gotten us yet. You lose an arm at Gettysburg, get your lung shot out at Roum. Hell, the Comanche couldn’t get me, a Reb sniper tries to take my leg off and a Merki arrow in the chest and then shot up again escaping. Shit, we’ll get through this one, son; there ain’t nothing left to shoot up.”

Andrew chuckled as Hans put his arm around Andrew’s side as if helping him along, two old battle-scarred warriors, hobbling along. The others waited, and Andrew felt as if all of them could sense what was exchanged between the two.

Andrew was surprised to see that Father Casmir had just ridden up and was dismounting. How the priest found out was beyond him, but then he always seemed to know everything.

He came up to Andrew and Hans, shaking their hands.

“Hawthorne told me about the plan.”

Andrew shifted silently, angry that Vincent could be so loose-tongued.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t breathed a word of it. Brilliant, it’s absolutely brilliant.”

He looked over at Varinna.

“Perhaps you should be a permanent part of our war councils.”

“Chuck would like that,” she said with a smile.

“No, you’re your own person now. Let the dead sleep, my daughter. You have a mind and a heart of your own.”

“Your Holiness, a good blessing sure would help,” Hans said, and Andrew looked over at his friend in surprise.

Hans reddened slightly. “Well, it’s never too late to get a bit of religion.”

Casmir chuckled and, reaching into his robes, pulled out a small vial filled with holy water. Uncorking it, he motioned for Hans to kneel and sprinkled a few drops over his head while softly chanting a prayer in the ancient language of the Rus, unchanged across a thousand years of exile.

The deep melodious chant rose in volume, all who were gathered around falling to their knees, even the Chin and Ketswana. Though of old Presbyterian stock, Andrew felt overwhelmed by the moment and fell to his knees as well, head lowered in prayer for his friend, for the mission, for all who were fighting or longing to be free.

Casmir turned away from Hans, holding the vial up, sprinkling the holy water over the assembly, the chant continuing, Andrew managing to understand a few words … “and for those of the old world and all those of the Diaspora in exile upon this world we beg your mercy and protection …”

The Diaspora, an ancient Greek word carried to this world.
We of the Diaspora,
he thought,
but if we win this fight it shall no longer be thus. We will have finished our wanderings, our enslavement, our exile, and this shall forever be our home
.

He looked over at Hans again, and it was as if a strange light was gathered about him, about all those who were leaving. He remembered now and understood, that if ever there was a cause worth dying for, this was it. It wasn’t a war to take something, or even to defend the property or country one had. Hans was right. It had been, it always would be, a war to set men free, the most noble of all causes that one could ever sacrifice oneself for. That was why Hans had to go, and that was why Andrew had to let him go.

The chant died away and there was a long drawn-out moment of silence. Andrew looked up and saw Casmir staring straight at him, smiling. The priest offered his hand, and Andrew took it, coming to his feet.

“Load ’em up!” Andrew shouted, surprised by the power of his own voice.

Hans went up to Ketswana, the two exchanged a few words, slapped each other on the back, and Ketswana started to detail off the Chin in groups of ten, pointing each group in turn to one of the machines.

With a grin Ketswana started for the machine directly behind
Flying Cloud
, then angled over to Andrew.

“Don’t worry, sir, I bring him back for you,” Ketswana announced. Andrew took the Zulu’s hand with a firm grasp.

“Godspeed and good luck, my friend.”

Ketswana, obviously delighted with the mission, slapped Hans on the shoulder, turned, and sprinted off.

“Other than you the closest friend I have,” Hans said.

The two went over to Jack, who was briefing the pilots gathered round, with Varinna and her assistants standing to one side.

“Remember, you have no bottom gunner now. If we do get jumped, you head right to the deck and hug it. The fake stinger might throw them off for a while, but if they ever figure it out, that’s the spot they’ll go for.”

Andrew looked over at one of the ships. The compartment which had once held the bottom gunner and bomb dropper had been removed, replaced with a wicker basket affair fifteen feet long and six feet wide. What was nothing more than half a dozen broom handles, bundled together and painted black now extended from the back of the basket. The squads of Chin soldiers were lining up by the doorway into the baskets, most of them obviously unnerved by the size of the airships, the noise of the engines, and the prospect of what they were about to do.

There had been no time, or surplus fuel to give any of them even the briefest of orientation flights; this would be their first time aloft. They chattered nervously amongst themselves, waiting their turn as the first man climbed the rope ladder into the wickerwork compartment. By the time the sixth to seventh man had climbed aboard, the airships had settled down onto their wheels and now it was not much more than a high step to board.

After the last man was aboard the ground crews passed in their carbines, which had been thoroughly checked to make sure they were empty, cartridge boxes, two blankets per man, tins filled with rations, and two five-gallon barrels of water. Slung along either side of the compartment were four boxes roped in place carrying the additional gear.

“All you have to do is stay behind me,” Jack announced, continuing his briefing. “If I should fall out, well you’ll have to navigate yourselves in. You’re divided into squadrons of four ships, so squadron leaders, it’ll be up to you. The navy’s given us good maps of the coast with all prominent landmarks, so once you hit the coast again fix your position and either head north or south into Tyre.”

He looked around at the group.

“I’ll see all of you this evening.”

, The pilots, nearly all of them not much more than twenty, grinned nervously. There was a scattering of laughter, some gallows humor, and the group stood up.

“Hold it!”

It was Gates. Andrew felt a flash of annoyance when he saw what the newspaperman wanted, but then the historian inside took hold and he nodded approval.

Gates already had the camera out of the wagon and up on its tripod. The sun was just breaking the horizon, casting long shadows.

“You'll all have to stand very still, there’s not much light.”

Gates moved the camera slightly so that he could get part of an airship in the background, then motioned for Andrew to join the group. He felt a presence to his side and saw that Hans had come back from his ship to join in the moment, followed by Ketswana and several of the Chin. Vincent strolled over and stood beside Varinna, who had a chart rolled up under her arm, with Casmir on her other side.

“Hold it now.” Gates took the cap off the lens and started to count down the seconds.

All stood silent, striking their most formal pose, Andrew realizing that as always he had turned slightly to hide the empty sleeve. From the corner of his eye he saw Hawthorne, always the young Sheridan with right hand slipped into his open jacket. Pilots stood casually in their baggy coverall pants, wool jackets open, several with their hands in their pockets. Then there was Hans, slouch cap pulled low, shading his eyes, jaw working a plug of tobacco so that his face would look blurred.

Again the moment of crystal clarity came, the realization of just how precious this all was, how this was a moment as fragile as a glass figurine.

“ ‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,’ ” he whispered, his voice carrying.