Jack settled down in his chair, taking another long sip of tea, and nodding his thanks as Feyodor handed him a buttered biscuit and a slab of cold salt pork. He chewed meditatively on the tough meat, blocking out the exuberant chatter of Stefan and Feyodor in the aft section.
He cocked his ears for each of the engines, slowly throttling them up and then back down to cruise setting. The wind gauge read just under thirty miles an hour, but with the breeze almost astern he estimated they were doing seventy or more.
A mile below, he saw a scattering of yurts and the upturned faces of Bantag looking at the strange apparition. The air was so crystal clear that he felt he could almost see the details of their faces, their openmouthed astonishment. Stretching his arm out the window, he waved and then made a rude gesture.
"Do you think we passed it during the night?" Feyodor asked.
Jack unfolded the map drawn by the naval survey that had scouted the eastern coast. For several minutes he carefully scanned up and down the coast and then examined the map again.
"I think we're about thirty miles north. That small bay that curves up into the mountains. On the map here."
He pointed at the map and then over to his left. Feyodor craned his neck to look and finally nodded in agreement.
"Let's drop her down, get out of this wind." He pointed Flying Cloud's nose down at a twenty-degree angle and went into a dive, while turning to the southwest. The wind continued to push them away from the coast and he eased in more throttle, turning into a west-by-southwest heading. Finally they started to gain and as the ship dropped below five thousand feet the wind appeared to abate so that he could finally steer southwest to maintain a southerly course.
As dawn continued to spread, the sky to the east glowed red and he could see a broad estuary coming down to the sea. A spread of white sails stood out clearly as they drew closer, running close-hauled several miles off the coast.
"Steam sloop Vicksburg," Feyodor reported, raising his telescope to sight the ship.
Jack nodded and examined the toylike ship when Feyodor passed the telescope over. It was one of the picketboats patrolling this, the outer edge of enemy territory, yet another extension of an undeclared conflict. Half a dozen settlements of what he guessed to be descendants of the Chinese dotted the eastern shore of the sea. Bantags garrisoned them, and picketboats like the Vicksburg cruised by on occasion to take a look. Bullfinch was calling for more aggressive action, cutting out raids, even arming the locals and triggering a rebellion, but Congress and the president kept overruling him. What was up the estuary was unknown, for any approach up the river was blocked by a dozen galleys based on the inner side of the bay. Today that would change.
"Stefan, time to get topside," Jack instructed. "We're in the badlands now. Keep a sharp watch. We don't know if they have any flyers, but we'd better be on the safe side."
"Aye, sir!"
Jack shook his head as the boy eagerly buttoned up his leather flight jacket, stuffed half a loaf of bread into one pocket, and tucked a flask of water in the other. Pulling his helmet on, he strapped goggles over his eyes. He opened the aft door and, reaching out, grabbed hold of the rope ladder. Hanging nearly upside down, he scrambled up the side of the ship, the wind whipping his jacket and trousers. He soon disappeared over the side.
"The boy's a natural-born pilot," Feyodor said admiringly.
"He's insane," Jack grumbled in reply, his stomach knotting up at the mere thought of hanging on the side of the ship.
A high, piercing whistle sounded next to Jack and he uncapped the speaking tube. "I'm in place, sir. It's beautiful up here," Stefan cried.
"Are you strapped in? If we start maneuvering I'm not going to have time to warn you."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Jack shook his head again, recapped the speaking tube, and looked back to the front.
"That estuary runs southeast. I'm going to take her back up a bit. How's our fuel?"
"We're fine. Just over three quarters."
"The run back, though," Jack replied. He searched the ground below for any sign of smoke, and caught sight of a plume rising from a row of buildings near a long shed, which he suspected was for the galleys.
"Seems to be backing around to westerly down there, maybe five, ten miles an hour."
He checked his fuel gauges again. He wanted to keep a good reserve. Maybe go in for an hour or so, then come about.
Settling back in his chair, he finished his breakfast, occasionally raising his field glasses to study a detail or point out sights for Feyodor to sketch or note in the logbook. The disk of the sun broke the eastern horizon, and long shadows raced out across the steppe.
"There must be a sizable town further up this river," Feyodor said, breaking the silence of the last hour, which had been interrupted only by occasional comments from Jack to note a village or some other sight that might be significant.
Jack nodded in agreement. Dozens of boats dotted the river, and the airship had passed what looked to be two construction yards, one with a barge-like ship more than two hundred feet long sitting on the ways. A dozen more galleys were beached along by a small cove as well, and he could clearly see a throng of several thousand humans in a walled enclosure, their dark forms surging back and forth, faces turned upward at his passage.
A flash memory struck him of the burial of Jubadi and the horrific slaughter pit he had witnessed.
"I'd love to swoop down there with a load of guns, and let those poor bastards break out," Jack whispered.
Feyodor didn't reply, field glasses trained forward.
"I think that's a town up ahead." Lowering the glasses, he picked up the telescope and extended it, bracing the end of the tube on the forward railing of the window.
"Take a look," Feyodor said, passing the telescope over to Jack. It took him several seconds to focus it. Then the image snapped clear, and he whistled softly as he scanned back and forth.
"I think we'd better get a photograph of this," he said.
After a few minutes he put the telescope down and picked up his field glasses again for a broader view. He examined a shipyard for several minutes and to his horror finally realized that there were more than a dozen vessels with iron siding on the ways, black pipes sticking up through the decks. The town spread out along the riverfront, and he could clearly see gangs of laborers working in the yards. An earthen fortress dominated the yard and what looked to be artillery was mounted to fire on the river.
Feyodor unsnapped the hatch to the first camera. Sighting down, he flipped the shutter open, counted to ten, and closed it. The image would be blurry, but it should still be decipherable.
He shifted his gaze for a moment to look downstream again. The river swung at this point in a loop to the south before turning north again, so that what appeared to be another earthen fortress abutting a village that guarded the approach was in fact further away. If any ships were going to run up the river, they'd have to pass the lower fortress first.
He studied the fortress for several seconds, and then something caught his eye—a plume of smoke rising just beyond it. Thinking vaguely that something was not quite registering, he shifted his gaze away.
Then realization suddenly dawned, and he grabbed the telescope and swung it back and forth, finding the smoke for an instant, losing it, then finding it again.
“Merciful god, they've got trains."
Feyodor stood up and leaned forward with his field glasses trained on the ground.
The rhythmic puffs of smoke moved slowly beyond the ridgeline. Jack inched his telescope forward from the direction of the advancing smoke and then saw the rails, cutting through the ridge. A side track ran toward the fortress town, the other branch ran straight on into the city, which was now almost directly below.
“Off to the east of the town, Jack. It looks like hangars for airships!"
Jack tore his attention away from the rail line and looked where Feyodor was pointing. Six long, narrow buildings were arranged l
ike spokes around a vast open field. Even as he watched, the nose of an airship emerged from one of the hangars.
"We're going to have company," Jack announced.
Now he looked back toward the ridge and finally saw it … an engine was cresting the cut, a string of half a dozen flatcars behind it, each one bearing a large boxlike structure covered with tarps.
"Should we come about?" Feyodor asked.
"I want a photograph of the train."
"Are we coming about, then?"
Feyodor was right. What they had already discovered would shake the hell out of Andrew and, better yet, out of Congress and the president as well. He continued to study the engine. It was bearing some sort of cargo in toward the port. It had to be something manufactured—otherwise, why the effort to cover it with canvas? He saw no evidence of factories or any facilities for making iron plate or engines or foundries for cannon or ammunition. If the bastards took the trouble to lay track, it had to lead to something important.
Judging from the plume of smoke from the locomotive the wind was backing around more to the west. Still a quartering headwind for the return.
"I want to see where this track leads," Jack announced.
Feyodor looked at him and shook his head. "Keep an eye on that ship coming out. By the time he gains altitude we'll be well ahead, but as we come about, he might be a problem."
Jack reached over to the speaking tube and blew through it so the whistle on the other end sounded.
"Stefan. There's a ship coming up. If they have one, there might be more. Keep a sharp watch now!"
"I hope we get into a fight, sir!"
Muttering a curse, Jack set the ship over onto a more easterly head, aiming for what he could now see must be a railroad cut through a ridgeline twenty miles away.
"There's the other train!"
Hans climbed halfway out of the cab to look forward and saw a smudge of smoke hovering on the track directly ahead, visible now in the early-morning light.
"Is he past the switchoff?"
"How the hell should I know?" Alexi shouted, the tension of the chase beginning to tell.
Hans saw that the other engine was slowly gaining and was now only a couple of miles behind them.
"If they've gone through the switch we're in for it!"
"I think I see the switch signal!" the fireman shouted, leaning out from the other side of the cab. "The other engine's yet to pass it."
Hans looked down at his rifle and fumbled nervously at the bandoleer of ammunition slung over his shoulder. Scrambling up to the back of the tender, he looked through the hole chopped into the boxcar.
"Get ready back there. Remember, one long blast means come out fighting. Pass the word back."
Someone waved from the inside. Hans shook his head. If only he had a company or two of his troops from the Rus army, or better yet from the old Thirty-fifth, he'd be tempted just to slam on the brakes and let the bastards chasing them come in for a fight. He would almost welcome one as a release from the tension. He knew he could at least count on the two hundred people in the cars to fight, but there would be no discipline, and he doubted if one in ten of them could hit a Bantag even if the muzzle of the gun were pressed into his stomach.
"The other train's slowing!" Alexi announced, and he held the whistle down, giving repeated blasts.
"Can you signal him to clear the way?"
"That's what I'm doing."
Alexi stared at the crude steam gauge.
"They're still on the main line. They're throwing the switch!" the fireman shouted.
Alexi looked at Hans, who let go a string of oaths.
"I've got to ease off on the throttle," said Alexi. "They might not be clear at the other end of the switchoff."
Hans leaned out to see down the track. The engine was still closing. There was no way of telling how many warriors were behind him. At one point, a dozen miles back, the track had curved enough that he thought he saw at least four or five cars behind the engine by the light of the crescent moon. If so, there might be upwards of two hundred Bantag in pursuit. It would be a massacre.
"Just get us through the damn switch. Don't set off a signal unless there's warriors on that train. If it's just a freight we kill the crew, open the throttle, and send it back against the bastards behind us!"
Alexi nodded. Hans signaled Ketswana and Gregory. "Get ready!'
Alexi continued to ease back on the throttle, edging in the brakes. A Bantag and two humans stood by the switch, the Bantag obviously furious. The train turned onto the side, and as it did so Hans leaned out of the cab, aimed his rifle, and shot the Bantag before he even had time to react.
The two humans looked up at him in disbelief, and one of them lit out in blind panic onto the open steppe. The engine shifted back as it started to run parallel to the main line and two more shots rang out. Gregory and Ketswana had dropped the other Bantag in the cab. Hans held his breath as he scanned the boxcars, expecting at any second for them to burst open and a stream of warriors to pour out… but nothing happened. Alexi had guessed right—the train was too long to fit onto the siding. The ten cars stretched past the second switch leading back onto the main line.
Alexi edged the engine forward and then gave a final pull on the brake as the last of the cars cleared the switch.
"Let's go!" Hans roared. Leaping down from the cab, he motioned for Gregory to run down and throw the switch, while the switchman from the yard handled the one to turn them back onto the main line once the rest of the train was cleared.
Hans stepped up into the cab of the train and found the human operators gaping at him. "If you want to live, get the hell off this train!" he roared in Bantag. The two continued to look at him, then down at the dead warrior at their feet, then back at him.
Leaning out the cab again, he could see that the train pursuing them was slowing to a stop several hundred yards away, the troops pouring off either side. Seconds later, a bullet cracked past.
Gregory stood up from the switch and waved the all clear. Hans pushed the throttle forward, and the wheels beneath him started to spin.
He leapt down from the cab. The two operators were still standing aboard their train, staring at them. He raised his gun and pointed.
"Off! Now!"
The two looked at each other and then jumped from the opposite side.
The train started forward, wheels still spinning, then finally gripping so that the train shuddered and lurched.
As soon as the last of the cars cleared the switch, the switchman threw his weight into it and easing the track over. Bullets were now cracking past, a plume of dirt kicking up by Hans's feet. He leapt back up into the cab as the engine started forward and saw the telegrapher looking up at the pole. A young boy who had been sent up the pole to cut the line was now hanging over the crosstree, blood pouring out of his chest. He reached up feebly with his knife, cut the line, and then slumped over.
Hans looked away, watching as Gregory and Ketswana raced up beside the train and jumped back into the cab.
"Let's hope that wrecks the bastard!" Ketswana roared, hanging on to the side of the cab and leaning out to watch the show, in spite of the bullets zinging past.
"How far to the next stop?" Gregory shouted.
"Junction forty miles ahead and we're nearly halfway there," Alexi replied, not adding that the map showed a Bantag encampment, a bridge, and a rail yard. If there was a place that could stop them cold, it would be there.
"Back it up!" Ha'ark roared.
The human engineer looked at him disbelievingly.
"Let it come down to us, back up before it and match its speed."
The engineer pulled back on the throttle, throwing the engine into reverse. The train coming toward them was picking up speed and Ha'ark leaned out of the cab, watching intently. He found it perverse that part of him was actually enjoying this pursuit. It reminded him of a legendary chase back in the early age of steam, two hundred years ago during the Wars of Success
ion on his home world when Cagar'du, the True Heir, escaped from prison and was pursued by rail for five days until finally cornered and killed in single combat by his rival, the founder of the Lektha Dynasty.
The human engineer allowed the engine to draw closer, until with a barely perceptible bump the two engines touched while going backward down the track. Unable to contain himself, Ha'ark swung out of the cab, ignoring the shouts of protest from the company commander. Easing down the side of the engine, he hesitated for an instant and then leapt across to the other engine. He worked his way down to the cab and climbed aboard, snapped the throttle down and then pulled in the brake. Sparks showered out beneath him and his own train started to pull away. The train finally came to a stop and Ha'ark, grinning, leaned back in the cab, waiting for his warriors to run up to his side. He could see the looks of admiration in their eyes.
Good, let it add to the legend a bit.
"My Qarth. Look!"
Ha'ark leaned out of the cab and looked where one of his soldiers was pointing.
Skimming low over the ground, just clearing a low rise behind them, two flyers came into view.
Ha'ark watched them, admiring their lines, the sleek, rigid-frame bodies… and the wing-lifting surfaces that extended to a span of nearly a hundred feet.
To his eyes they were tragically primitive. It would be generations before there would be any hope of lifting the barbarians he ruled to piston aircraft, let alone jets, but it was a start. He saw the superstitious dread on the faces of many of his warriors as they gazed heavenward, some of them making the sign to ward off evil… and more than one of them looked sidelong at him in awe, for after all, had not the Redeemer created this wonder to cast down the evil spirits that possessed the cattle?
"Run this train back up to the siding, push as many cars as possible onto the siding, and disconnect them. This was sent by the ancestors to aid us."
Battle Hymn Page 22