Men of War (21 page)

“Follow me, sirs; they’re waiting over at headquarters.”

Hans fell in with the group as they strode across the field. The passengers from the airships were out, nearly all of them a sorry-looking lot.

“Major, are copies of Gates’s Weekly making it down here?”

“Ah, yes sir, we just got the issue about what happened up at Capua. They came in on the transport carrying the ironclads.”

“Well detail off some men. I want every copy you can find rounded up. Then find some glue, if need be take some flour and mix it into a paste. Then paper it on the outside of those wicker troop carriers.”

The major looked at him confused, then called to a sergeant who had been tailing along and detailed him off.

“In all the rush we never thought of it,” Jack said. “Damn foolish mistake, type of thing that can lose a war.”

As they passed the line of Hornets Hans slowed to inspect the machines. More than one was holed, a couple had hydrogen bags that were completely deflated, a patching crew was working by feel since no lighting of any kind was allowed near a ship that could be leaking hydrogen.

Several of the Hornet pilots came up to Jack, saluting.

“We really grabbed their tails out there,” one of them announced excitedly. “I came over a low rise, must have caught a hundred of them camped out in the open, about fifty miles back from the front. Damn did I tear them up.”

“The landings, did they work?” Vincent asked.

The pilot was startled to see the chief of staff of the army standing in the shadows and snapped to attention and saluted.

“Ah, yes sir. The Hornet I was escorting, he landed three times along a ten-mile stretch of the wire and tore out a good long piece at each.” The pilot nodded to a slight boy standing beside him.

“Tell him, Nicholas.”

“Like he said, sir. We took down wire between two poles at three different places.”

Hans could see that the boy was shaken, left hand clasping his right arm in the evening twilight, the black stain on the arm obviously blood.

“Your crewman?” Jack asked.

The boy shook his head.

“I lost him on the third landing. Some of them bastards were hiding in a gully, no horses. They shot Petra as he was up on a pole, then came rushing out. I got hit, too, but managed to get off.”

He lowered his head.

“I think Petra was still alive when I left him,” the boy whispered.

Jack patted him lightly on his left shoulder.

“You did the right thing. You had to save your Hornet.”

“No sir, I was scared. I might have been able to get him in.”

“No you couldn’t,” the other pilot interjected. “I had no more ammunition, so all I could do was try and scare them by flying low. That’s when they shot up my ship as well.”

“I was scared and ran.”

“We’re all scared,” Jack replied softly. “Now get some rest. I want both of you back up tomorrow at first light, wounded or not. Anyone who can fly has to be in the air tomorrow. You saved your ship, so don’t think about anything else now.”

They continued on, Hans catching a glimpse of a bottle being passed around as soon as they had passed.

The headquarters hut for the airfield was nothing more than a-hrown-walled adobe shack, typical of Tyre, where lumber was in such short supply. It was the only light on the field as the men labored under the glow of the twin moons that were breaking the eastern horizon.

As they stepped in Hans was startled to see Gregory Timokin. His face was still puffy, pink, blistered. Hands were wrapped in bandages, and it reinforced yet again just how desperate this venture was. Stan stood beside him, grinning, obviously eager for the operation to begin.

Though his stomach was still in rebellion over the flight he quickly took up the bottle of vodka sitting on a rough-hewn table, uncorked it, and took a long drink.

“All right. What’s the bad news first?”

Gregory snickered.

“You want the long or the short version?”

“Go on.”

“Fuel first of all. If we were burning coal, there’d be more than enough. Fifty-two ironclads. I’ll need twenty-five thousand gallons if you want them to get to Carnagan.”

“I have first priority,” Jack interjected.

“And that’s at least another forty thousand gallons for one way.”

“We supposedly had it stockpiled,” Hans said, rubbing his forehead as the vodka hit him.

“The oil field is lost. We had enough stockpiled through our coking of coal and getting the coal oil,” Vincent said. “What’s the problem? And what do you mean ‘fifty-two ironclads’?”

Gregory sighed, staring at the ceiling. “One of the ships carrying more coal oil and ten land ironclads hasn’t docked.”

“What the hell? There was supposed to be a monitor escort for you people.”

“Fog. Yesterday and the day before. We came out of it, near Tigranus Point, and the ship was missing. I asked a Hornet to go up the coast, and the pilot thinks he found the wreck. It went straight into a shoal and foundered.”

“Damn all,” Hans snapped. “So we’re short how much?”

“Fifteen thousand gallons.”

Hans looked over at Vincent, who shook his head.

“We could make that up in a week from the coking plants at Roum and Suzdal. It’s getting it here, though.” An argument broke out between Jack and Gregory over who got priority on the fuel; Hans just sat woodenly, staring at the bottle for a moment, while meditatively munching on a piece of hardtack to put something back into his stomach.

“Ground the Hornets that got shot up. Pull off the Eagle that cracked its undercarriage, then detail off four more Eagles to stay behind.”

“What?” Jack snapped. “That’s ten percent of my remaining force.”

“Our force, Jack, our force. We need fuel for the ironclads. The Eagles can be used locally for support. Once more fuel comes in they can be used to haul what, a couple of hundred gallons each out to the column to keep it supplied. Gregory, I’m taking five thousand gallons from you for our remaining airships.”

Now both Gregory and Jack were^on him, but he sat silent, his icy stare finally causing them to fall silent.

“I know that won’t give you enough fuel to reach your objective with any margin to spare. Figure this though. Half your machines will break down before you even get there. Do like we did on the Ebro. Drain off the remaining fuel, load it into the ironclads still running, then move on.”

The two started to object again, and Vincent slammed the table with his fist.

“Damn all. There’s no time to argue now. This operation is supposed to kick off tomorrow morning. The argument’s over. Gregory, your machines, are they ready?”

“If you mean off-loaded, yes sir. Like I said, we’re down to fifty-two.”

“And did the Bantag see them before the lines got cut?”

“Certain of it.”

Hans smiled. “Good. That’s what we wanted.”

“I don’t get it,” Gregory replied sharply. “Why didn’t you cut the telegraph wires first before we brought the ironclads down here. Now they’ll know and be on us.”

“That’s what I wanted,” Vincent replied. “We’re the bait.”

“The what?” Stan asked. “And what do you mean ‘we’?”

“Because I’m going with you, Stan.”

“Fine, but what the hell is this about bait?”

“We had to cut the lines before we flew all the airships in here to Tyre. The moment we did I assumed Jurak would figure what the real target is. I didn’t want him to guess the true intent, so I wanted him to get word that all our ironclads had been moved down here. He’ll assume that we are trying to break out of Tyre and take Camagan. After all, it is a logical move. We take Carnagan even briefly and we could threaten his supplies moving over the Great Sea. Beyond that we could tear up that rail line they’re building from there over to here. I want him to focus on here while Hans presses the main attack.”

Both Stan and Gregory nodded, but it was obvious that they were less pleased with this role, and the definition that they were to be a diversion rather than the main attack.

“So it’s Third Corps and nothing else?” Stan asked.

“Yes. We have to keep a minimum of two corps here in Tyre to hold this base. I think one corps is more than enough.”

“You ready?” Hans asked.

Stan smiled, shifting the plug of tobacco in his cheek, looking a bit like a younger version of Hans.

“We scraped up ten days of rations per man, one hundred rounds of ammunition with an additional hundred in the supply wagons. New shoes have been issued. We’re ready.”

“And your feelings on this one?” Timokin asked.

Stan smiled. “Oh, about the same as everyone else, I guess. But what the hell. Kinda figured we all should have drowned off the coast of Carolina ten years ago. Every day since has been a bonus. If we’re going to go down, let me do it out in the open fighting. Tell me where to go, Hans, we’ll get there.”

Hans smiled and looked over at Vincent. The three corps cut off in Tyre had developed a unique spirit. In the one sense they felt abandoned, cut off on a useless front while the big actions were fought up around Roum. But on the other side they had a blind faith in Hans and any sense of difference between Rus and Roum had been burned out of them during the harrowing retreat from the Green Mountains down to this coastal port and the long months in the trenches afterward. These men were battle-hardened but not battle-exhausted as were the survivors of Roum and the nightmare assault at Capua.

“Effectives?”

“Ten thousand two hundred men with the corps ready to march. Six batteries of breech-loading three-inchers, and one mounted regiment.”

“What about supply wagons?” Gregory asked. “That’s the crucial thing. We need healthy horses and good strong wagons that can keep up.”

“About a hundred,” came the reply, and again there was the look of exasperation from Gregory.

“Hell, four hundred wounded in a fight, and we’re in trouble.” He looked over at Hans.

After the horror of leaving over a thousand wounded behind during the retreat of last year, Hans had made a firm statement that never again would wounded by abandoned. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Ammunition and coal oil have to come first. With luck we’ll capture a lot of horses at the start. That’ll alleviate food and transport for lightly wounded. Wounded that can be saved get wagon space; those who can’t make it …” He lowered his head, leaving the rest unsaid, that the man would be left behind with a few rounds of ammunition.

“What I figured,” Stan replied. “Just I think of old Jack Whatley at times …” His voice trailed off.

“Anything else?” Hans asked.

The group was silent, looking one to the other.

“Fine, we start up in six hours. Try and get some sleep.” One by one the group headed out. He knew Jack and Gregory would be up all night, double-checking on each machine. Finally, only Vincent was left. He settled down in a chair across the table from Hans, eyed the bottle, and finally uncorked it and took a drink. Hans said nothing.

“War’s changed too much.” Hans sighed, stretching out his stiff leg. “I miss the old ways. God, there was something about a division, an entire corps on the volley line. It was hell, but I’ll never forget Fredericksburg, watching the Irish brigade going up the hill. Damn what a sight.”

“Even Hispania,” Vincent replied. “When we pivoted an entire division, closing off the flank, the men cheering, shoulder to shoulder, perfect alignment, over four thousand men. Wonder if we’ll ever see the likes of that again.”

“Not with these new machines. Changed everything. Guess it’s inevitable. Back on the old world, bet they have ’em as well by now.”

Vincent took another drink and passed the bottle to Hans, who nodded his thanks, shifted his chew, and enjoyed another gulp.

“Don’t go getting yourself killed out there,” Hans said.

“Goes with the job.”

“No, there’s more to it.”

He leaned forward, staring into Vincent’s eyes.

“Son, my generation, Andrew, Pat, Emil, we’ve played out our part. A chapter’s closing with this war. If we win.” He shook his head. “No, when we win, I pray that will be the end of it for us. But that doesn’t end it on this world. You and I, perhaps even more than Andrew and Pat, are the real revolutionaries. I was their prisoner. You, well you had your own torment from them.”

Vincent said nothing.

“We both know this war will have to sweep the entire world. The Bantag are of the great northern hordes, but there must be more out there. We only know of one small part of this world. We have no idea of what is southward beyond the realm of the Bantag, what’s on the other side, what threats there still are. The only hope is to free all of humanity on this world, then build from there. It will be your war then.”

“So stay alive, is that it?”

Hans smiled. “After this is over you’ll have Andrew as your mentor. He thinks he wants to let go of the reins, but knowing Andrew that will change. There’s supposed to be an election at the end of the year. Who knows, he might even run if we still have a country and are still alive. If he does, well you’d be the choice for who would run the army.”

“What about you, or Pat?”

Hans smiled and waved aside the question.

“You can’t have a better model than him to follow. And watch out for him, too. It will be tough at times.”

“As he followed you,” Vincent said, and Hans was surprised to see a softening, something so rare in this boy who had come of age too early in the crucible of war.

Hans cleared his throat nervously.

“You talk like you don’t expect to come back,” Vincent said.

“Well, when you planned this mad operation, what chance did you give to the air operation?”

Vincent said nothing for a moment.

“Well?”

“Varinna was a bit more optimistic than I.”

“I see. But you know, it’s what I wanted, what I said from the very beginning. That's why Andrew decided it was me who should lead it rather than you.”

“I know that now.”

“And Vincent.”

“Yes?”

“I’m going all the way with this one.”

He didn’t mention Andrew’s authorization; he’d only play that if he had to.

“Kind of figured you would,” Vincent replied calmly. Hans looked up at the simple wooden clock hanging over a tattered picture from Gates’s Illustrated, a full-page print of Jack Petracci with four smaller images, one in each corner of the illustration, showing airships fighting.