by G. R. Carter
The plane climbed and began to circle above the carnage. A second Raptor broke its holding formation and dove on the buildings below. Fredericks figured this was a training mission for the second pilot. The engines were revved, not taking the chance of stalling the plane or waiting for ground fire to get a lucky hit in. Still, the pilot showed some skill, clearly aiming at a place he saw as a potential target. Cannon smoke appeared trailing the sturdy wings, streaks reaching out to smash anything in its way. There must be a good set of attentive eyes in the cockpit. Younger eyes than mine, Fredericks thought. The cannons stopped and the second Raptor banked, preparing for another pass.
This time the Republic warplane flew straight down the street where the bus came from, shredding every piece of metal still visible and not consumed in flames. Cannon shells finally expended, it circled around and waited for its comrade to lead them back across the river. As the two warplanes formed up, Fredericks smiled at the shark’s mouth painted on the engine cowls. Bright red grins with white teeth stood out against the green mottled camouflage covering most of the metal skin, an absurd contrast lost on few. Red hawk emblems under the wings glared back at those stuck on the ground, waggling in salute as they flew past.
“Sam Hamilton,” Fredericks said to no one in particular as he recognized the emblem on the lead plane’s tail.
“What’s that, Commander?” Captain Tyler Eckert asked, straining to see what his new commanding officer was looking at.
“The plane’s tail, look at the emblem,” Fredericks replied without taking his eyes off the duo above. “On the upright. There’s a green and silver shield with a sword bisecting it. Pommel up, forms a cross behind a shock of wheat.”
“I don’t understand, sir. What’s that got to do with Sam Hamilton?”
“That symbol is the Hamilton family’s coat of arms. The green and silver shield with a shock of wheat is the emblem of all the original Fortress Farm families—well, anyone from the area they call the Okaw. That’s where the capital of the Republic is. But if it has the up-and-down sword bisecting it, that’s the Hamilton family themselves,” Fredericks said. “The second one has the insignia, too. But it has a couple of roses wrapped around the sword…not sure who that is.”
“Those Red Hawks are a different bunch,” Eckert said with exasperation. He once served as Colonel Darian Walsh’s second-in-command for the armies of the New American Empire. Walsh’s death, and the subsequent shotgun marriage with their once-mortal enemies, had caused an epic clash of cultures for those simply referred to as Americans.
Few besides Martin Fredericks had enough experience with both to effectively translate the idiosyncrasies of one to the other. His reward was not only command of all Red Hawk forces, but also responsibility for the successful integration of New American Legionnaires into their ranks.
“I thought the same thing when I first met them. No doubt they’re into their symbols. Probably no different than we were in the United States Army. Or New America, for that matter; otherwise how do you explain all those strange statues in Lincoln City that Walsh had made? The Republic just uses different symbols, ones that take some getting used to,” Fredericks replied.
Some time ago, ground crews of the 1st Air Wing surprised their pilots with personal markings painstakingly painted on their assigned planes, like knights of a bygone era. Even the Piper Cubs used to scout targets got the treatment. Since most pilots were the sons and daughters of Land Lords, the insignia of their ancestral Fortress Farms provided the starting point. But the personalities of each pilot led to some interesting designs and more than a few inside jokes their respectable parents would probably disapprove of. If the pilots had their way, the camo paint scheme would be dropped for a flying circus motif; no room for subtlety in a world gone mad with violence.
“So why would the brother of the Ruler of the Republic be putting himself in harm’s way? The Jijis would torture him for weeks if he got shot down over there,” Eckert asked.
“First of all, Captain, you need to get the terminology right. There is no ‘Ruler,’ Alex Hamilton is the Founder of the Republic.”
“I thought his dad was the Founder?”
“Phillip was the original Founder. Now we call the position itself the Founder’s Chair. Alex took over the Chair at the time of his father’s death,” Fredericks explained, seemingly for the hundredth time to a person in a New America uniform.
“It’s hereditary? Accordin’ to my education, that makes him a ruler of some kind, maybe a king. Or an emperor, or whatever you want to call it.” Eckert’s North Carolina drawl made the statement half satirical, half accusatory.
“It’s complicated. They’re working on it.”
Eckert looked back at where the departing Raptors had disappeared. “I guess I don’t care, as long as those evil-looking hawk symbols are pointed at the Jijis and not us.”
Fredericks smiled at the honesty. The news of Walsh’s death, and the subsequent unexpected alliance with the hated farmers to the south, had brought a mixture of disbelief and relief to the New American rank and file. The Americans here nearly cried when they received word of Red Hawk armor and air reinforcements on the way; many confessed they felt they were on borrowed time, having been left to die by their former dictator.
“You’ll find that the Hamiltons will lead from the front, even when you try to stop them from doing so. Sam’s the best pilot the Republic has, and the best trainer, too. His presence shows just how important Founder Hamilton thinks this bridge is.” Fredericks said.
“Last surviving bridge over the Illinois River,” Eckert agreed. “Every Jiji in the whole of the north country is trying to get here and take it from us. They’ve tried river crossings with little boats, barges…” He paused with a far-off stare. “Even tried an infantry charge across the bridge itself. That was nuts.”
Fredericks nodded. He could still see the results of that failed attempt on the asphalt and iron ahead. Judging by the way the human remains were situated, some of the human wave almost made it to the American side. According to the Legionnaires who survived the conflict, they almost ran out of ammunition before the Jijis ran out of teenagers dumb enough to believe they could make it across.
Fredericks’ arrival to inspect New America’s northern front found an unexpected level of chaos. Most of the troops here were what the Americans dubbed “Provisionals.” That is, they were locals recruited into the American army from surviving towns that submitted to Walsh’s Reconstruction plan. Although well-trained Legionnaires were the officers, Provisional ranks were bolstered by refugees from the now-defunct Great Lakes Republic. Thousands had streamed into American territory fleeing the conversion sword of the Northern Caliphate, many across the bridge Fredericks was looking at now. The Caliphate soldiers—or Jijis, as everyone around here called them—seemed to have a never-ending supply of men and weapons to throw at the locals. The battle to the death that had been raging since shortly after the Reset had now gone the Jijis' way, and now anyone not wishing to submit to their version of sharia law was trying to make their way south.
Explosions ripped into the debris across the river. Fredericks grabbed his field glasses again and searched the opposite bank. “Lieutenant Beasley? What’s going on here?” he asked his aide.
She paused for a moment, trying to decide, then the answer jumped into her mind. “ARK airships, sir. Well, they call them skyships for some reason. Admiral Romano brought up a new squadron, they asked to use the Caliphate’s front lines as a place to train. I didn’t figure you would mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind, but let’s make sure that allied aircraft dropping hundreds of bombs near our front line is something I’m aware of in the future, understood?” Fredericks instructed. He always encouraged his subordinates to take initiative, but younger officers still struggled to find the right balance between overloading with information and not sharing enough.
“Beautiful ships, aren’t they?” a voice from behind Fredericks s
aid. He smiled and nodded to his old friend and comrade Hank Tripp, just making his way down the path from the bluff.
Fredericks turned and raised his field glasses to look at the airships soaring several thousand feet up. There were four of them, though he could only make out the name on one from this range. “Tulsa,” he said. “Interesting name for an airship.”
“True. I wonder if that city even exists anymore.” Tripp said.
“If it doesn’t, I guarantee you our ARK friends are busy rebuilding it. Industrious folks, and anxious to expand, from what I gather.”
“Like our Founder?” Tripp asked. Fredericks didn’t have to turn around to know that his colleague was staring at Captain Eckert, half-challenging the tall American with a cowboy grin.
Political correctness wasn’t Tripp’s strongpoint. He wasn’t afraid to share his feelings about the resources the Red Hawks were expending to help the Americans. Fortress Farm Shiloh, his home near the border between the two nations, had been nearly destroyed in the recent invasion. The farm’s reconstruction was being overseen by a member of the Hamilton family, a non-negotiable condition for Tripp to make the inspection rounds of the Northern Front. Fredericks valued Tripp’s opinion enough to suffer getting an earful about the Americans who just a short time before had been trying to kill him.
“Don’t start, Hank. We’re all together now,” Fredericks said, straining to read the names of the other airships as they each made a pass at the Caliphate lines. A rapid succession of explosions, some on target (but many not), announced the delivery of the second craft’s payload.
“It’s okay, Commander, I need to get goin’ anyway. I’m headin’ up to inspect our artillery,” Eckert drawled. “Mr. Tripp, a pleasure as always.”
“Against the storm, Commander Fredericks.” He thumped his fist to his chest, still a little awkward with his new homeland’s salute.
Fredericks turned and returned the gesture with the salute’s reply: “Eternal Republic, Captain Eckert.” The American gave a half-bow and spun on one heel, striding away up the bluff.
Tripp chuckled at them, “Lord, am I glad I’m a civilian now. Did we really look that silly back in the old U.S. Army?”
“Traditions tie people together, Hank. They have to start somewhere,” Fredericks said, finally taking his glasses down and watching more explosions across the river.
“Old habits die as hard as the soldiers who carry them,” Tripp laughed. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you without any Americans here.”
Fredericks stopped watching the bombardment on the far riverbank, focusing on Tripp. “That can’t be good. What’s this about?”
Tripp pointed to the four-lane interstate in front of their barricade. “Freddy, we’ve got to drop this bridge. Cut off the Caliphate before they have a chance to get across.”
“The Americans blew every other bridge across this river, Hank. Without this one, there’s no way to get any more refugees back here. At least, not in decent numbers”
Tripp shook his head. “If you’re thinking about the Americans holding out in Dixon, there’s no way to get to them now. I don’t have to tell you that, you know what’s between us and them. Unless ARK’s willing to loan us a few of those,” Tripp said, pointing to the airships above.
“Never going to happen,” Fredericks said with a sigh. “No way Nicole Diamante will let us put her new toys in that kind of danger.”
“Then what are we waiting for? You planning to invade the Caliphate?”
“Invade with what? The Americans only stopped the Jijis by getting rid of all the other bridges. They’re way outnumbered. Eckert massed all their defenses here, holding out hopes they could get back across and free their northern farms and towns,” Fredericks said.
“Exactly. That’s what I just said. The only reason to keep this bridge is if we wanted to go north. Do we or do we not intend to invade the Caliphate?”
“Not a chance. It would take weeks to get a decent number of Razorbacks up here. Even if you Land Lords were willing to part with yours—”
“—which we are definitely not willing to do…”
“…which you are not willing to do,” Fredericks agreed. “Even the armored Snapping Turtles are susceptible to RPGs, which the Jijis seem to have plenty of. We don’t have the ground forces to commit, and the Americans are exhausted.”
“‘Despondent’ I think is a better word than exhausted,” Tripp said.
“No, they were despondent before we got here. Now they’re just exhausted and scared. Which is a mood we can work with on defense. But no way do men in that mental state go forward against a group of savages who seem obsessed with dying.”
“Which I myself am not. So the question is, what’s keeping this bridge from going into the water? Eventually, the Caliphate will have a big enough force gathered over there to take the stupid thing,” Tripp said. “The fly boys can’t kill ‘em fast enough.”
More blasts echoed across the water. Beasley answered before being asked this time. “American artillery this time, sir. I think they saw a Jiji pop his head up over in the factory.”
“Send a runner to Captain Eckert. Tell them to wait for specific fire missions, please,” Fredericks said testily. “We don’t have the ammunition available for gopher hunts.”
Tripp laughed, imagining a Jiji popping his head up in one place and then another, getting the Americans to fire a virtually irreplaceable shell at such a low-priority target.
“Too far for effective sniper range,” Tripp said, disappointment dripping from his voice. He pointed at a modified M24 sniper rifle sitting in Fredericks’ jeep. “Did you know the Americans had those things?”
Fredericks glanced over and just shook his head. The Red Hawk advisors here all shared the same uncomfortable feeling that most of New America’s best equipment was directed at the Caliphate. If Walsh had used all of his Legions and weapons against the Republic instead of splitting his forces, the outcome of their war may have been very different.
“Goes against everything we were ever taught, Hank. Dropping that bridge, cutting off troops surrounded by the enemy,” Fredericks sighed. His argument was halfhearted; he was beginning to think Tripp was right. No more refugees were coming; they were all under Caliphate control now. Fredericks and the American officers in command here estimated that a mass assault to take the bridge was just days away when the Red Hawks showed up. In fact, Republic advance forces had interrupted an argument between Provisional officers and the remaining American officers on site about whether to try and blow the bridge now, while they still had the chance.
“Maybe the classroom training stuff told us we shouldn’t give it up, but experience in the Sandbox and now the last seven years made a lot of stuff in the manual irrelevant,” Tripp said. “Even a rescue mission to get the Dixon people out won’t be going over that bridge. Whatever we do, we need to do it quick. They’re going to get impatient over there. I think they packed for a quick trip, not a long campaign,” Tripp said, raising his own field glasses to scan the opposite bank.
“You’re right about that. Okay, let’s get the Americans together and find out what their plan was to drop the bridge. I’ll see what Sam thinks. He's got the best grasp of how the Caliphate buildup is going. If he agrees we'll see if he'll fly back and get confirmation from Alex. Something this big needs to have his input.”
Tripp slapped his friend on the back. “I know it’s not what you want to do, Freddy. It’s not like we’ll be able to rebuild a big river bridge anytime soon. Provisionals with farms up north will be pissed that we’re giving up on getting their homes back. But there’s zero chance of winning a war of attrition with fanatics when all we have are a handful of Legions and recruits fresh off the farm. We need to save what we can, build up our defenses, see where that takes us. Besides, those folks in Dixon are probably dead already.”
Fredericks simply nodded in acknowledgment and turned to Beasley, winded from the quick-time run up to the artillery batte
ry commander and back again. “Sorry to make you go up the bluff again, Lieutenant Beasley, but will you please get me Sam Hamilton before he takes off on another sortie? Hurry, it’s important.”
Mt. Vernon, Grand Shawnee
Present Day
“You and the Founder abandoned us to die in Dixon years ago!” The captive’s sobbing became inconsolable. Wasson remained on edge, his hand on his knife, lingering just a step behind. “We been dyin’ a little every day since.”
Fredericks was stunned. The memories came back to him now. He glanced at the man in the chair, then looked over at the body of the one who had been shouting at him through the windows. He had refused to surrender, and Wasson took him out before he could suicide them all.
“Henry Dodge and Zack Stevens,” he muttered to himself.
“That’s right. Glad you finally remembered us! Coulda used that before your pet savage killed Uncle Henry, eh?” he spat and glared and Wasson.
Fredericks ignored the half-heard taunt. “You were with me when we killed Colonel Walsh that night in Indiana. I thought you stayed to settle and help rebuild the Lafayette Province after I left. What happened?”
“We did what good soldiers do. What real human beings with a soul do,” Stevens spit through the tears and snot. “When we was told that some of our old unit was trapped in Dixon, we left and headed that way. We got some men together to head up river and get ‘em out. The American commander at La Salle said we’d have air support. But it never came! We got trapped with the survivors. Dem Jijis starved us out. Finally we’s gave up…we had to! The civilians were dyin’, what was left of ‘em.”