Without waiting for a reply, Vincent, who was grateful for an excuse to get out of the machine, took Chuck by the arm and forced him to the door, leading him back out.
Sitting down on the ground, Chuck gasped for breath, Vincent kneeling by his side.
"After we ship out today you can take it easy for a while Chuck."
"A long rest, that's what I need," Chuck whispered, his breath rattling, coming in short gasps.
Vincent watched him intently, not expressing his fears as his old friend leaned forward, coughing, spitting up blood.
"Once Timokin gets his command in battle, make sure the machines stay together," Chuck whispered, "Don't split them up. Still don't like idea of you taking our new flyer up, we lose the element of surprise. Wanted them massed as well."
Sighing, he fell silent, looking down at the ground.
"Wish I could go up to the front with you, find out what happens."
"I'll make sure you get the full reports."
Chuck looked at him wanly and smiled.
"We'll see," he whispered, and struggled back to his feet as Kal, perspiration streaming down his face, emerged from the ironclad.
"Frightful machine," Kal announced. "Now let's wee how you plan to stop them hairy devils."
Chuck slowly walked over to a limber wagon, motioning for a gunner to open the lid.
"Give me a solid shot, then load."
Chuck took the ten-pound bolt, walked back to Kal, and handed it to him.
"Standard ten-pound shot, sir, wrought iron."
Behind him the gun crew slammed the round into the breach, followed by a powder bag. Vincent knew that the lieutenant in command of the piece had been nervously sighting and resighting it, but he checked it once again after the interrupted screw breech was slammed shut.
"The first target we'll shoot at is three inches of armor," Chuck announced, "what we think they have mounted on the front of their land cruisers. Notice, sir, that it's mounted vertically, no deflection."
"I suggest, gentlemen, we get behind some cover." Ferguson motioned for the group to get behind a freshly raised breastwork.
The gun kicked back, followed an instant later by a bell-like clang and shower of sparks, a piece of the shell arcing back over the heads of the observers. Vincent had his field glasses trained on the shield, already knowing what he would see. There was a deep dent, but it had held.
The second shot, aimed at a shield angled back to simulate the front of the land cruiser, did even less damage, the bolt skidding up the side in a shower of sparks.
Two more guns, twenty-pounders, were now brought into play. The round cracked the vertically mounted shield but, like the lighter ten-pound round, skidded off the angled siding.
"A twenty-pounder might shake them up at two hundred yards," Chuck announced, "if the round strikes at a right angle. Any type of deflection over ten degrees or so and again there's a problem."
Chuck looked over at Vincent, who realized that his friend needed help since he was short of breath and going into a coughing spasm.
"The one I saw us knock out," Vincent interrupted, "was hit by a fifty-pound muzzle-loading Parrott at approximately three hundred and fifty to four hundred yards, hitting the side armor. The problem is the rate of fire of a fifty-pound muzzle loader is, at best, a round every two minutes, and that's with a crack crew. Unfortunately, the only fifty-pounders we have are mounted on the ironclads, some of our fixed fortifications, or the armored trains. There's not a single field unit in the army. The only reason we had that piece in action was that we stripped it off a ship and moved it by rail. Remember, we are talking about a piece that weighs over six tons. It is simply not usable except in a fixed position."
"In other words, useless for offensive actions," Kal interjected.
"Yes, sir. In a field action, if we let a land ironclad get to under two hundred yards before we can damage it, they've won. Their riflemen will decimate the gun crews at that range and they know that tactic. We might knock out one ironclad, but before our gun crew could reload, the surviving ironclads will be inside our lines. It was hell near our fieldpieces, made worse by the ironclad gunners pouring canister In on us. Our gun crews were ripped to shreds."
"So what is the answer, Chuck?" Kal asked.
Chuck looked back nervously at the ten-pounder gun crew and nodded.
"Load it up," he gasped.
The loader ran up from the caisson, cradling what looked like a white shell with a dark base, and slid it into the breech.
"Let's try for the sloped armor," Ferguson announced. The lieutenant commanding the piece nodded and brought the gun to bear on the target, stepped back, and looked at Chuck. Vincent trained his field glasses on the armor, holding steady as the gun fired.
Again there was a flash of light, and, to his amazement, as the flash and puff of smoke disappeared, he saw a hole drilled clean through the armor.
He looked back at Chuck, who was grinning nervously.
"What the hell was that?" Vincent asked.
Chuck led the group over to the limber wagon and motioned for the loader to bring out a round. Vincent took it, noticing a needlelike point at the top of the round, which then disappeared into a casing of what seemed to be papier-mache.
"What the hell is this?" Vincent asked.
"It's made of spring steel, the best we've got. The problem with the old shells are they're made of wrought iron and shatter on impact. They're also too broad. I wanted a narrow point of impact, all the kinetic energy of the shell focused at a single point."
"It looks like an arrow," Kal said, taking the bolt from Vincent.
"Well, it sort of is, sir. We had some shells back on Earth called Schenkl rounds. They had a papier-mache section designed to engage the rifling. The papier-mache disintegrated as the shell left the barrel. It set me to thinking. On this shell here I have a lead plate that rests on the back of the round to absorb the explosive charge, the papier-mache sets the shell spinning as it goes down the barrel, then it peels away. The fins on the steel bolt keep the round on track, and it punches clean through. Actually, I'm not sure, but I think it melts when it hits the armor and then burns through it, spraying the inside with molten fragments."
"Range?" Vincent asked.
"Ten-pounder, sloping armor or deflection shots out to two hundred yards, twenty-pounder to three hundred. Straight-in shots on vertical armor, the ten-pounder will nail it at over three hundred and fifty yards, the twenty-pounder at five hundred."
"Damn good," Vincent cried. "Not what I'd hoped for, but pretty damn close."
"Well, it's the best I could come up with for now. We're going to use up a hell of a lot of good spring steel—it'll cut into our rifle production and a few other things—but I could have several hundred rounds ready to go in less than forty-eight hours. The molds are already made, and the crews standing by to start pouring."
"And you just thought this up overnight?" Kal asked, incredulous.
Chuck shrugged his shoulders. "Well, sir, ever since Hans came back with the report, I've been toying around a bit. Vincent here finally came back with the figures I needed, and so I thought I'd give it a try."
Kal shook his head.
"Amazing how war brings this out in us."
"What's that, sir?" Chuck asked.
"Our creative ability to kill."
Chuck didn't know how to react, but Kal put him at ease, patting him on the shoulder. "We'd all be dead if it weren't for you, Ferguson. Keep thinking up better ways to stop them."
"What I'm trying to do, sir," Chuck replied.
"Now, I've orders from your wife, you ride back in the carriage, no bouncing around on a limber wagon. Get aboard, son," Kal said, urging Chuck over to the carriage and helping him up. Kal looked at Vincent and motioned for him to take a walk, and the young commander fell in by his father-in-law's side.
"Think it will work?"
"Chuck said it, sir. One thing to test it, another thing in the field. It increases our range, b
ut still not out as far as I'd like. Their riflemen can still pepper our artillery, or they can hold back and shell us with those new mortars of theirs. I think the tactic is to hold these new artillery bolts till they get close, then knock out as many of their machines as possible in the first few minutes before Ha'ark catches on."
"Once he realizes it," Kal replied, "he'll use the same thing on us."
"Undoubtedly," Chuck replied, "or beef up his armor—any number of responses. It'll work once, then that's it. The other problem is we could go through three hundred rounds in a couple of minutes. I'll most likely allot them to the best gun crews and make sure they're in the right place at the right time. That and place some of the rounds with our own land ironclads if we can rig them up with brass cartridge loads in time."
Their walk had carried them downrange, and Vincent stepped around the back of the armor plate and examined the hole.
"Hell for anyone inside a machine when this busts through," Vincent announced. "Whether it's boiling steel or still solid, it will bang around inside, tearing you to ribbons."
"That's the general idea, isn't it," Kal replied coldly.
"Something like that."
"By the way, there's additional news," Kal said. "It just came in over the wire."
"What?" Vincent asked nervously. Every moment he spent away from the front was an agony, his fear being that Marcus might try to engage before Vincent brought up the rest of the reserves and the dozen land ironclads.
"It's Hans."
"What?"
"He's not moving north. A courier broke through to Marcus this morning. Two arrows in him; he died within minutes after delivering the message. Hans is moving south, pushing to the end of the Green Mountain range and the shore of the Inland Sea. He aims to take Tyre."
Vincent looked at Kal, incredulous.
"Tyre?"
"Makes a hell of a problem it does," Kal said wearily. "The Cartha ambassadors made it clear that if we even cross into their territory, it's war."
"Damn them; they should be fighting alongside us."
"I can understand Hamilcar's position, son. Merki on one side, Bantag on the other."
"Same as us."
"But they can't hold out, while we can. If they don't respond to Hans's move with a declaration of war, the Merki or Bantag will attack and occupy them. Hans's taking Tyre means war on another front."
"The hell with them. Hans made the right move," Vincent announced, delighted with the news.
"I'll keep the word from the Cartha ambassador; hopefully they won't know until we've all ready gotten him out," Kal replied.
"Another sea rescue?"
"Something like that. I've sent for Bullfinch to meet with us to plan it out."
Vincent shook his head, then started to laugh.
"It's just like him. I should have thought of that. I feared he was being driven north. Breaking through to Andrew and Pat is one thing, but even then, Ha'ark could have kept Hans bottled up. This puts a whole different light on it."
Kal looked at him, confused. "I thought this was madness."
"It's genius, Father, pure genius," Vincent replied, dropping the formal sir in his excitement. "He's most likely sent some detachments north to confuse Ha'ark, then lit out in the other direction, what they'd least expect. The only damn problem is that most of the coast is inaccessible except for Tyre. It's a hell of march, 150 miles or more, fighting most of the way, but if he can get down to where the mountains end, Bullfinch can pick him up."
"Fifty thousand men?"
Vincent looked at Kal and shook his head.
"Make it ten, twenty at best," he said quietly. "Maybe twenty-five thousand. It'll take all the shipping we and Roum have, but you better start getting the ships down there now!"
"What I feared." As he spoke he looked back at Chuck, who was sitting hunched over in the carriage.
"He's slipping again."
"I know. Damn it, Father, send him away now. The climate above Roum might be better for him, maybe that villa Marcus loaned to Colonel Keane after the last war ended. He needs absolute qui bed rest, no worries."
"Chuck not worry?" Kal laughed, and shook his head.
"I know, I know, but we're losing him. Once we head up to the front, get him out of this city. The air here is getting worse all the time." As he spoke he motioned north, to where the factories lining the Vina River were pumping out dark plumes of smoke.
"Strange how you Yankees have changed our land," Kal replied. "As a boy I used to play in the meadows along that same river. Now it's brick, iron, shrieking whistles, a whole new city rising up that will soon be even bigger than Suzdal. Was it that way back in your Maine?"
"Getting that way. Price of progress, of freedom I guess."
A shower of sparks soared up from the ironworks as a batch of molten iron roared out of a furnace. A door in the gunworks swung open, a small switching locomotive emerging, whistle shrieking, pulling a flatcar upon which rested a freshly cast fifty-pound rifled Parrott gun, ready to be shipped to the front.
"This all came from his mind," Vincent said, "the tools of our freedom and our change. Perm save us if we lose him now."
"Perm save us even if we win," Kal replied softly.
"I'm starting to fear that the world is changing beyond anything I ever imagined."
"Fifty thousand men?" Bullfinch gasped, slamming down his mug of vodka so that it spilled across his desk and onto the deck of his cabin.
"That was how many he started with," Vincent said. "Five thousand more deployed north to try and throw Ha'ark off, muck things up a bit. You'll have to sweep the coast and try to pull them off as well."
Bullfinch shook his head and drained off what was left of his drink.
"A bit too much of that lately, Admiral," Vincent said.
"Now don't try and pull your Quaker temperance act on me," Bullfinch snapped. "I remember when you got pretty deep into the bottle yourself."
"So you lost a battle. Who hasn't around here."
"I might have lost the war," Bullfinch grumbled, staring into his mug.
"Maybe you did," Vincent replied coolly.
Startled, Bullfinch looked up.
"If you're expecting sympathy, go someplace else. I have a war to run here."
"Thanks a lot, Vincent."
"Maybe you did lose the war, getting caught by surprise off the bay like that. You should have been farther back."
"Damn it, don't you think I've fought it out a thousand times in my mind? Ferguson was working on a submersible, even said we should worry about Ha'ark doing the same. I didn't think they'd come on like that. And punching through our armor—I should have thought of that as well. I got too cocky."
"So, can you change it?"
"No, damn all to hell."
"I lost count of the number of men I've used up," Vincent said, his voice distant. "Defense of Roum, Hispania. A week ago, I ran a battery up to Fort Hancock, knowing they were going to get cut to ribbons, just so I could watch their land ironclads, observe their tactics, how much punishment the machines could take."
He paused and looked out the open gunport of Bullfinch's cabin to the flame-scorched walls of Suzdal, which still bore the scars from the Tugar and Merki Wars.
"I did a calculation," Vincent continued, his voice distant, almost dreamy. "Trade a hundred, two hundred lives to test Ha'ark's new machines, see how he fought, find out what he could do.
"Then there was this boy, on my staff, didn't even know his name . . ." His voice trailed off.
He sat in silence, listening to the gentle lapping of the river against the ironclad's hull, feeling the sway of the ship as a monitor, under full steam, passed ] down the river, its bow wave and wake rocking Bull-jfinch's flagship,The Republic,in its mooring.
"Make those kinds of calculations every day. Is this worth one life or ten thousand. Will I trade a regiment or a division for this piece of ground which the day after will be worthless steppe again."
He
looked back over at Bullfinch.
"You made the same calculations and lost."
"Scared to death it will happen again, Vincent. God, when I saw two of my ships go up, and then the pounding, splinters slicing the deck, men cut in half, and there wasn't anything I could do to hit back."
He started to pour another drink and stopped, looking up guiltily at Vincent.
"Now another rescue, not a thousand like we tried with Hans the first time, but fifty thousand. He's starting to make a habit of this kind of thing."
"Figure on twenty, maybe thirty, if at all," Vincent replied. "He might have stolen a march on them, but they're mounted and he ain't. The last fifty miles or so will be hell. No way to take the wounded, fighting i every step of the way. Make it twenty thousand."
"Vincent, I've got ten ironclads here, twenty-five other ships. All of Suzdal and Roum combined might have another hundred merchant ships and some old galleys, we might be able to squeeze out twenty, but it will be rough."
"When are you leaving?"
"Chesapeake is already on her way," Bullfinch said, nodding toward the monitor which had just passed. "I'll sail later today. I've telegraphed Roum and told them to be ready to have all their ships rendezvous with us in three days. But damn all, it still might not be enough."
"If so, you might have to leave someone behind," Vincent said coldly.
"And you know Hans will stay this time if that's the case. Poor old Gregory had to trick him last time."
"I know," Vincent replied. "Look, Bullfinch, we'll worry about that when the time comes. I need those corps and will need them badly. As fast as you pull those people off, get them to Roum. If we don't get Pat and Andrew out, we'll need every man we can get to form a fallback position."
"And if we don't get Pat, Andrew, and the men with them out?" Bullfinch asked.
Vincent sighed. "I guess I'm in command, and we lose the war. Ha'ark will be in Roum before winter. Same stands true even if we do get them out, but don't get Hans's men out, there'll be no reserves. As it is, I'm stripping all of Sixth Corps off the western frontier. That will give me three and a half corps to try and pull this rescue off. I'm leaving later today. Fourth Corps is already in Roum, the last elements of Sixth Corps leave with me, along with the land ironclads and Petracci's airship."
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