His hand shaking, Andrew put the telegram down on the desk and looked up at Pat, who stood before him, loudly blowing his nose.
Hans… alive! Emotion swept him like a torrent, and he lowered his head. The door behind him burst open.
"Is it true?" Emil cried.
" 'Tis true," Pat replied, still choked with emotion. "Petracci just landed at the defensive line air base. Lord knows how he did it in the dark."
"So what is this? A damn wake?" Emil laughed, slapping Andrew on the shoulder.
"You damn Irishman, give me that flask," Emil demanded. Uncorking it, he held it aloft. "For Hans, God bless 'im."
Emil tilted his head back for a long gulp and then passed the flask to Andrew, who smiled and took a drink himself.
"I never did believe him dead," Andrew said.
The door opened, and an orderly entered, holding a long sheet of paper.
"Latest report from Petracci," he announced excitedly.
Andrew grabbed the sheet and started to read, Pat and Emil crowding around to look over his shoulder.
Sighing, Andrew took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair. Thoughts of Hans fled for the moment.
So it was war, as he had always feared. They had trains and flyers of a new design, were building what looked to be ironclads, had troops with rifles. It was a mobilization undreamed of, and he silently cursed all the mistakes he had allowed to happen over the last four years. If only we had pushed forward more aggressively, had put more effort into improving airships, had built up the fleet of the Great Sea and pushed patrols up the river.
"See that copies of this are immediately sent to the president," Andrew snapped to the orderly.
"He'll shit," Pat said with a sad chuckle.
Andrew glared at Pat. "He's the president, damn it. Remember, we're on the same side."
"But, Andrew."
Andrew held up his hand. "The differences are buried as of right now. We're already at war again, and remember, damn it, we answer to the president, not the other way around."
The room fell silent. Sighing, Andrew stood up and went to the window. The shock would have been a bitter blow to start with, but that could wait. Now there was Hans.
He felt numb, as if a ghost he had almost managed to finally bury had come back. And I did not find you, my friend. I did not look hard enough. A wave of shame coursed through him, that he had allowed himself to believe what the Merki said and ignored the instinct that told him somehow Hans had survived. How can I face him after that? he wondered.
"Andrew, this looks bad," Pat finally said.
Andrew turned. "Escaping by train, still two hundred miles from the river. Then this fort Jack mentions. Seize that and hope we can get up river?"
Pat shook his head and put the telegram down.
"We get him out. I don't care what it takes, we get him out."
"But how?" Emil interjected.
Andrew walked back over to the desk and picked up the two telegrams, studying them intently. Then he went to the door and pulled it open.
"Get the latest deployment reports from Bullfinch, and ratings for all ships in the Second Fleet," he shouted, sending two of his staffers in the next room scurrying.
He sat down and waited in silence, drumming the table with his fingers. A minute later an orderly burst into the room, bearing the daily reports and a leatherbound reference book listing all the ships of the navy and their designs.
Andrew looked at Pat.
"Vicksburg is the only one on station. Woodensided steam and wind-powered sloop."
He shook his head. "It'd be torn apart in the river by the rams."
"Petersburg might do it if we can locate her."
"Are you going to try and run the river?" Emil asked.
"What else can we do? It's the only way to get them out."
"Talk about a provocation for war," Pat sighed. "It'd be a violation of the president's orders. He'd have Congress down his throat."
"I'll worry about that later."
He tore through the ratings book, pausing for a second on the Vicksburg. Four guns, fifty-pound rifles, wooden-sided. He shook his head and kept going to find the Petersburg, the one ironclad now deployed. It carried one of the hundred-pound Parrott guns forward and eight broadside five-inch rifles. Displacing only six feet, the side-wheeler carried two inches of armor backed with oak.
He closed his eyes. The ship was still on shakedown with Bullfinch on board. They weren't even sure where it was at the moment; its orders were to cruise southward but to remain out of sight of land. The Franklin was the one other possibility, a four-gun propeller-driven ship based on the original designs used in the Cartha War. But that was still docked for final fitting out. Even if it could sail this instant, at best speed it would take at least two and a half days just to get to the mouth of the river, and it drew nearly ten feet.
There were half a dozen light sloops, good for patrolling but useless for running up the river against resistance.
He sat in silence, listening to the clock ticking in the comer. From the next room he could hear the telegrapher sending the repeat of the dispatch to Kal. It was impossible to imagine that Kal would not approve the operation to bring their friend out. But there was always Congress. Running the river would be an open act of war, and he could well imagine that some in that chamber would want to debate the issue. Kal could order the rescue attempt in any case, but he might very well want to consult the leaders and Marcus before proceeding. Time—it would be a waste of precious time.
The telegraph fell silent for a moment. A series of rapid clicks suddenly came back, a short reply, and then another message started. Andrew half listened, still wrapped in thought as an orderly came in bearing a fresh report. Andrew scanned it while Pat watched him intently.
“It's direct from Petracci. Says repairs on his ship should be completed by dawn. He wants clearance to fly back to check on Hans's progress."
“Permission granted," Andrew replied.
He stirred and asked Pat, "How many airships are based here at the moment?"
"Three operational."
“Get a pilot and engineer out to the field right now. I want one of them up as soon as possible.”
"At night? We don't have any boys that are all that good at night flying, Andrew. Hell, they get killed just about the time they finally start getting the hang of it."
"I want one up"—he looked at the clock—"by eleven, ready to make a run."
"Whatever for?" Emil asked.
As he started to explain, Andrew almost wanted to laugh at the astonishment on his friends' faces.
Cursing soundly, Ha'ark paced the siding as his straining warriors struggled to push the engine off the track. He should have expected this. The only alternative to pushing the engine off now was to wait until dawn and thereby lose the chase altogether. The bent track at the place where Hans had obviously captured a second train had delayed them long enough for Hans to gain the next yard. There they had moved their own train forward, backed the captured locomotive around through a switchoff, then run it back through the switch, which had been set only halfway back, so that the engine derailed.
That had given them an hour's lead and now this. Without a strong headlight Ha'ark's train had moved along at barely a crawl. Three times they had stopped in time where a rail had been bent, but this trap was more cunning. All the spikes were pulled from two sections of rail and both the armored car and the engine had derailed when the track shifted.
Fuming, he looked back up the line. In the darkness he could see the smoke from nearly a dozen stacks. Jamul had pulled together a dozen trains carrying four regiments of his best infantry and two batteries of breechloaders. Schuder had but one of two alternatives when this chase finally ran down. Go into the city and try to seize a boat, or go to the citadel guarding the approach. Either one was a death trap. Unless the citadel commander was a total fool, Schuder would never gain entry, and even if he did, they would be upon him an
d would storm the place. If he did seize a boat, word would reach the citadel long before he got there and they would be smashed.
Ha'ark's only hope was that the kill would be delayed long enough that he would have the glory of it.
Jack stood shaking his head as Yankee Clipper touched down at the edge of the open field, landing far enough away to avoid Flying Cloud if the wind should suddenly shift. Andrew Lawrence Keane climbed out of the engineer's seat on unsteady legs and walked toward Jack, saluting the swarm of soldiers who stood in wonder even as they struggled to grab the mooring lines.
"Sir, begging your pardon, sir, but just what the hell are you trying to do?" Jack asked. "I could have been up an hour ago except for your order to wait."
"I'm going with you."
"Sorry, sir, but I don't think so."
Andrew looked down at Petracci, who still stood at attention. "Would you care to repeat that, Colonel?"
"Sir, as commander of the air corps I respectfully decline to take you with me."
"You know I could relieve you for insubordination," Andrew snapped.
A flicker of a smile crossed Jack's features, as if dismissal would almost be a relief.
"Then who would fly back out there, sir?" he finally replied.
Andrew stared straight at him, his gaze not wavering.
"Sir?"
Andrew turned to a young second lieutenant who was standing stiffly behind him, obviously nervous about interrupting the argument.
"What the hell do you want?" Andrew snapped.
"Sir. A telegram from the president, sir."
Andrew grabbed the sheet of paper, and the lieutenant hastily retreated.
Andrew. Full support of anything you order to save Hans, even if it means war. House and Senate leaders agree. It is the least we can do for someone who helped to make us free.
Kal
P.S. I've ordered Petracci not to let you fly.
Andrew turned back to Jack. "So you already knew this."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." He hesitated for a second. "But even without the order, I'd still refuse, sir. You're too valuable to risk up there. Can I show you something, sir?"
Andrew nodded and followed Jack to Flying Cloud. Jack walked along the bottom of the airship, which was hovering a dozen feet off the ground, more than a hundred men straining at the ropes to hold her in place.
"Look at the cabin, sir. I counted ten bullet holes. We took three artillery rounds through the ship, if any of them had exploded, that would have been it. One of the engines had to be shut down coming back, and Feyodor won't vouch for the repair job. I'm not going to risk you up there."
"But it's all right for me to send you up in it?"
"Sort of what I got drafted to do on this mad world," Jack said quietly. "I don't like it, but I'm stuck with it. The same as you, sir."
Andrew nodded and looked up at the cabin again.
"Tell me about Hans, everything you saw."
As Jack recounted his experiences, Andrew stood quiet, his head bowed. He could imagine all of it, Hans looking up as the ship soared over, chewing a plug. How he had ever managed to escape, from wherever it was they had held him, was something he sensed only Hans could have done. And what had they done to him, he wondered? What horrors had he endured these years, believing himself lost, most likely forgotten?
He finally looked up when Jack finished, and stepping closer, he put his hand on Petracci's shoulder. "What do you think his chances are?"-
"Honestly, sir?"
Andrew nodded.
"A snowball's chance in hell, sir. I'm not even sure if he retrieved the message. Going back up the line I had to dodge three more flyers. If he runs the train into that city, he won't stand a chance. The end of the line by the dockyard is packed with Bantag. There's a huge fort next to the docks. Even if they seize a boat, it'll get cut to ribbons by the artillery.
"I swung over the fort that I told him to go to for a second look. Just in case he does what I suggested. Kind of modern in its look—earthen walls, four heavy guns covering the river, two the land approach, a couple of light carriage-mounted field-pieces. The fort is built against a village of them Chinese folks. The village has a brick wall, which looks to be filled in front with earth."
"Defenders?"
"Looked like a garrison there of about seventy or eighty."
"And Hans's strength?"
"I counted maybe a hundred fifty, two hundred with him at most. I think that fort's the only place they can go, but then what? I bet there'll be a umen or more ready to swarm over him. He's got no place to run, sir. The whole thing is madness. I guess the old man just decided to destroy what he could, go out in a blaze of glory, and we just sort of stumbled onto it."
"Are you saying we shouldn't try anything, then?"
Jack shook his head. "Hell, sir. I'd give my right"—he stumbled, lowering his gaze—"excuse me, sir."
"That's all right. Go on."
"Well, you know, sir. I just don't know what we can do."
"We need to find Petersburg and order it to run the river. Do you think they could do it?"
"I'm not sure, sir. There's galleys in there, and I saw another bastion above five miles up the river from the bay and then one about ten miles before the fort I told Hans to take. Hard to tell what kind of guns, but they looked pretty big. Besides that, we're not even sure where Petersburg is."
"That's part of what I want you to do. You're going to take Flying Cloud straight back to that fort, and we'll see if Hans made it that far. The ship I came here on will take the western coast, then cut across. With luck we might spot Bullfinch. I want the other airships down here as well."
"Sir, there's no hangar here yet. If any of them ships get dinged up or need an overhaul or anything like a breeze more than twenty miles an hour kicks up, we'll lose them for certain. I've damn near used up all the supplies here as is, gassing up and patching the holes."
"Before I left I ordered the airships to move down here at first light and to sweep the ocean looking for Petersburg. We've got to find Bullfinch and his ship and order them in. That's our only hope. If it means losing a airship or two, then we'll take that risk."
Jack nodded in agreement.
"Sir?"
It was Feyodor. As Andrew turned to face him, he came to attention, and, grinning, snapped off a salute. Stefan, who was standing beside him, just stood gaping until Feyodor nudged him, and then he clumsily saluted as well.
"So this is the lad who dropped two flyers?" Andrew asked.
"Actually only one for sure, sir. I think Feyodor got the other, but we didn't see it burn."
"I plan to see some more of your shooting, son."
Jack started to utter a protest, but Andrew's look cut him off.
"That's my oldest friend out there," he said softly, "and you've just told me he probably doesn't stand a chance. By God, without him, I never would have been anything but a scared lieutenant and most likely would have finished the war that way. He made me. He made this Republic, and if he's going to die today I want him to know that I'm with him, that I did everything possible to try and repay all that I owe him."
Andrew felt a sense of shame when he realized that he was on the verge of losing control, his voice quavering. He was embarrassed that he was near to begging one of his subordinates.
"He's like my father, in some ways more than my father," Andrew whispered. "I want to see him, if only to say the good-bye I never had a chance to say before."
Jack stood silent, stunned. "Sir?"
"What?"
"You won't do anything rash? I mean like try to join him?"
The thought had crossed his mind, but there was Kathleen, the children, the Republic.
"No, I couldn't. He wouldn't want that, either."
"Aboard my ship I'm in command, sir. Will you agree to that?"
"Of course."
Jack fished in his pocket, pulled out the telegram, and motioned to the young lieutenant who had brought it to
him. The lieutenant approached and again nervously saluted Andrew, then Jack.
"Son, there's something wrong with this message from the president. I think whoever wrote it down got it confused."
The lieutenant started to open his mouth to say something, but then he looked over at Andrew.
"Same with mine, lieutenant. Send an inquiry back to the White House, tell them to repeat both messages."
"But, sir?"
"Just do it!"
"Sir." The confused young officer started to withdraw.
"And son," Jack added, "take your time."
Wishing more than anything that he had a set of field glasses, Hans slipped back down from the low crest and said to Gregory, "Your eyes are better than mine, son. Tell me what you saw."
"It looks like the track goes right into the town, sir. Bastions to either side. Think I saw a couple of them devils up there, but the gate's closed."
Hans nodded. Had they been warned somehow? Shortly before dusk a flyer had passed over them. Did they suspect? Or had Ha'ark managed to get ahead of their cuts in the telegraph line and send a message through?
No, if he had, there would have been a reception waiting at the last siding, five miles back up the line.
Now what? Ram the gate? Chances were it was barred with iron, and besides, even if they did break through, it would most likely smash up the train, derailing it and leaving a gap for the bastards to storm through.
Turning back toward the east, he shaded his eyes against the sunrise. He couldn't see any pursuit coming up the line. Turning to look north, he gazed down the broad open valley that led to X'ian. Though he wasn't sure, he thought he could see an earthen fort in the middle of the town, down by the river. He could only hope that Jack had guessed right. He turned back to. the bastion in front of him.
"No sense in wasting time. Let's go. Keep everyone in the cars. We'll see what happens."
Gregory saluted and started back down the track, Hans following slowly behind, struggling against exhaustion and hunger. Approaching the engine, he wearily climbed into the cab and nodded to Alexi.
Battle Hymn Page 25