Hope Renewed

by S. M. Stirling

  Fools, she thought with cold anger. I told them that we should concentrate on building battleships.

  Enough. Duty was duty; and her duty here was clear.

  “Signals,” she said crisply. They had waited motionless, but she could sense the slight relief when she began to rap out orders. “To all transports in waves A and B.” Those closest to the dock. “Enemy fleet approaching. Beach yourselves upriver.”

  That way the crews and troops could get off the ships, at least.

  “All transports drawing less than five feet are to proceed upriver.”

  Where they’d be safe from the shells of Santander battlewagons, at least. The animals still held parts of the river not far inland, but that was a lesser risk.

  “Waves C through F are to make maximum speed northward.” With luck, most of them would have enough time to get under the protection of the guns of the fortresses that marked the seaward junction of the old Sierran border. Imperial forts, but adequately manned and upgunned since the conquest.

  “Order to the fleet,” she said. Sixty miles . . . just time enough. “Captains to report on board the flagship, with the following exceptions. Battleships Adelreich and Eisenrede are to make all speed north and rendezvous at Corona.” Sending them out of harm’s way; the navy would need every heavy ship it had to keep control of the vital passage.

  “Mine-laying vessels are to proceed to the harbor channels and dump their cargos overboard. Maximum speed; ignore spacing, just do it. End. Oh, and transmit to Naval HQ.”

  “Sir.”

  Her chief of staff stepped up beside her, speaking quietly into her ear. “Sir, the enemy will have seven times our weight of broadside. What do you intend to do?”

  Eberdorf’s face was skull-like at the best of times, thin weathered skin lying right on the harsh bones. It looked even more like a death’s-head as she smiled.

  “Do, Helmut?” she said. “We’re going to buy some time. And then we’re all going to die, I think.”

  “Watch it!” someone said on the bridge.

  Maurice Farr didn’t look around. He also didn’t flinch as the Land twin-engine swept overhead, not fifty feet above the tripod mast of the Great Republic. He was looking through the slide-mounted binoculars of the combat bridge as the bombs dropped. One hit squarely on A turret, the forward double twelve-inch gun mount. The ship groaned and twisted, but when the smoke cleared he could see only a star-shaped scar on the hardened surface of the thick rolled and cast armor. Behind him a voice murmured:

  “A turret reports one casualty, sir.” That was to the Great Republic’s captain. “Turret ready for action.”

  “Give me the ranges,” Farr said.

  “Eleven thousand, sir. Closing.”

  Farr nodded. They were slanting in towards the Land ships, like not-quite-parallel lines, but there was shoal water between the fleets, far too shallow for his heavy ships, or even for most cruisers.

  “Admiral,” the captain of the Great Republic said, “at maximum elevation, I could be making some hits by now with my twelve-inchers.”

  “As you were, Gridley,” Farr said emotionlessly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two more Land aircraft were making runs at the Santander flagship, both twin-engine models. One was carrying a torpedo clamped underneath it; the other carried more of the sixty-pound bombs. He stiffened ever so slightly; the torpedo was a real menace, and he hadn’t know that aircraft could be rigged for—

  The torpedo splashed into the shallow green water. Seconds later it detonated in a huge shower of mud. The Land biplane flew through the column of spray, its engines stuttering. Just then one of the four-barrel pom-poms on the side of the central superstructure cut loose. It was loud even in comparison to the general racket of battle, and the glowing globes of the one-pound shells seemed to flick out and then float, slowing, as they approached it. That was an optical illusion. The explosion when the aircraft flew into a dozen of the little shells was very real; it vanished in a fireball from which bits of smoking debris fell seaward.

  The stick of bombs from the next aircraft fell in a neat bracket over the Santander battleship, raising gouts of spray that fell back on the deck. Tentacled things floated limply on the water, or landed on the deck and lashed their barbed organic whips at the riveted steel.

  Thud. Flash. Thud. Flash. The eight-inch guns of the Land cruisers on the other side of the shoal were opening up on him. He smiled thinly, observing the fall of shot. Water gouted up, just short of the leading elements of his seventeen battleships—the eighteenth, the President Cummings, was aground on a mudbank back half a kilometer and working frantically to it. The shell splashes were colored, green and orange and bright blue, dye injected into the bursting charges to let observers spot the point of impact. All were just a little short, although the foremost Santander battleship had probably been splashed. Another flotilla of four-stacker destroyers was darting out from behind the Land heavy ships, surging forward over the shoal water impassable to the deeper keels.

  For a moment, he abstractly admired their courage. Then he spoke:

  “Secondary batteries only, if you please.”

  “Yes, sir. Admiral, there may be mines in the channel ahead.”

  “I don’t think so; we rushed them. In any case, damn the mines, continue course ahead.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Great Republic had her weapons arranged as most modern warships did: two heavy turrets fore and aft, in this case twin twelve-inch rifles, and four turrets for the secondary armament, two on either side just forward and abaft the central superstructure. That meant each of the battleships could fire a broadside of four eight-inch secondaries. They bellowed, the muzzle blasts enough to rock every man on the bridge and remind them to keep their mouths open to avoid pressure-flux damage to the eardrums. Shells fell among the Land destroyers, sixty-eight at a time. Four destroyers were hit in the first salvo, disappearing in fire and black smoke and spray as the heavy armor-piercing shells tore into their fragile plate structures.

  One destroyer came close enough to the Great Republic to begin to heel aside, the center-mounted three-tube torpedo launcher swinging on its center pivot. Every pom-pom on the battleship cut loose at it, hundreds of one-pounder shells striking from stem to stern of the destroyer’s long slender hull. So did the six five-inch quick-firers in sponson mounts along the armored side. Afterwards, Farr decided that it had probably been a pom-pom shell hitting a torpedo warhead that started the explosions, but it might have been a five-incher penetrating into a magazine. The light was blinding, but when he blinked back his sight and threw up a hand against the radiant heat there was still a crater in the water, shrinking as the liquid rushed back into the giant bubble the shock wave had created. Of the destroyer there was very little to see.

  Another salvo of Land eight-inch shells went by, overhead this time.

  All along the line of Santander battlewagons the main gun turrets were turning, muzzles fairly low—they were close enough now that the flat trajectories of the high-velocity rifles would strike without much elevation. Farr didn’t trust high-angle fire at long range; it was deadly when it hit, but the probabilities were low given the current state of fleet gunnery.

  He smiled bleakly. I’ve waited a long time for this, he thought. Aloud:

  “You may fire when ready, Gridley.”

  Sixty-eight twelve-inch guns spoke within two seconds of each other, a line of flame and water rippling away from the muzzle blast all along the two-mile stretch of the Santander gunline. The Great Republic shivered and groaned, her eighteen-thousand-ton mass twisting in protest. The massive projectiles slapped out over the furrows the propellant gasses had dug in the water, reaching the height of their trajectory as the sea flowed back.

  Then they began to fall towards the Chosen, multiple tons of steel and high explosive avalanching down. When their hardened heads struck armor plate, it would flow aside like a liquid.

  Heinrich Hosten looked ou
t over the harbor of Barclon with throttled fury. The surface of the water was burning, floating gasoline and heavier oils from the sunken tankers still drifting in flaming patches. The masts of sunken freighters slanted up out of the filthy water, among the floating debris and bodies. A few hulls protruded above the surface, nose-down with the bronze propellers dripping into the filth below. Other columns of smoke showed low on the western horizon, where the Santander battleships and their consorts were heading for home. The air stank of death and burnt petroleum, with the oily reek of the latter far more unpleasant.

  “At least the enemy are withdrawing,” the naval attaché said.

  Heinrich swallowed bile. “Captain Gruenwald, the enemy are withdrawing because they have accomplished their mission and there are no targets left which warrant risking a capital ship. Now, get down there and see what assets we have left—if any. Or get a rifle and make yourself useful. But in either case, get out of my sight.”

  “Jawohl.”

  The naval officer clicked heels, did a perfect about-face, and left. Heinrich’s head turned like a gun turret to his chief of staff.

  “Report?”

  “We got about ninety percent of the troops and support personnel off the transports,” he said. “Half the supplies, mostly ammunition. Very little of the food”—it had been in the last convoys—”and only about one-quarter of the motor fuel. We may be able to recover a little more from tankers sunk in shallow water.”

  So much for the masterpiece of my career, Heinrich thought. An operation going absolutely according to plan, which was a minor miracle—until the Santander fleet showed up. It could have been worse. A day earlier, and they’d have slaughtered the entire army at sea.

  Aloud: “Well, then. Immediate general order: All motor fuel to be reserved for armored fighting vehicles. The officers can walk or ride horses. Next, the reports from the other elements.”

  This was a four-pronged invasion: his, down here in the coastal plain; an air assault on Nueva Madrid and points between here and there; and the two overland drives into the mountains on the Sierras northern and southern flanks.

  “Sir. Brigadier Hosten reports successful seizure of the central government complex in Nueva Madrid, most of the personnel on the critical list, of the National Armory, and the refinery. The refinery will be operational within six to ten days. She anticipates no problem holding her perimeter until linkup with the main force. All the other air-landing forces report objectives achieved.”

  Heinrich grunted with qualified relief. The rhythm of operations would be badly disrupted still, but at least he wouldn’t run completely dry of fuel when what he had on hand was gone. When he held the triangle of territory based on the Gut and reaching to Nueva Madrid, the bulk of Sierra’s population and industry would be under Chosen control.

  The aide went on: “General Meitzerhagen reports that the northern passes are now secured and he is advancing south along the line of the railway. Resistance is disorganized but heavy and consistent. Also, there have already been raids on his line of communication.”

  Heinrich grunted again, running a thick finger down the line of rail leading towards the central lowlands, with a branch westward along the Rio Arena.

  “My compliments to General Meitzerhagen, and his followup elements are to secure the line of rail by liquidating the entire population within two days foot-march of the railways.”

  The aide blinked; that was a little drastic, even by Chosen standards. Cautiously, he asked, “Herr General, will that not distract from our primary mission?”

  “No. Santander can interdict the Gut, but they cannot land significant forces here—they don’t have enough to spare from the Union border. Hence, the outcome of this campaign is not in doubt, given the forces available here. For reasons you have no need to know, it is now absolutely imperative that we secure the rail passage across the Sierra to our forces in the Union. Guerillas cannot operate without a civilian populace to shelter and feed them. These Sierrans are stubborn animals, and I have no time to tame them by gentle means. Their corpses will give us no trouble except as a public health problem.”

  “Zum behfel, Herr General.”

  “And my compliments to Brigadier Hosten: signal Well done.”

  “Why, thank you, Heinrich,” Gerta muttered to herself, tossing the telegraph form onto her desk.

  That had belonged to one of the Executive Council of the Sierra until yesterday morning. There was still a spatter of dried blood across it where a submachine-gun burst had ended that particular politician’s term of office; it was beginning to smell pretty high, too. The windows were permanently opened—grenade—which cut it a little; it also let her listen to mop-up squads finishing off the pockets of resistance all across Nueva Madrid.

  “Enter,” she said; the words were blurred by the bandages across one side of her face, and by the pain of the long gash underneath.

  Her son snapped to attention. “Sir. The last fires in the refinery are out. Here are the casualty reports. The technicians say that the water supply can be restarted as soon as we hold the reservoir; Colonel von Seedow asks permission to—”

  Colonel von Seedow came in, walking rather stiffly.

  “You may go, Fahnrich,” she said. Johan was young enough to still be entranced by military formality.

  Von Seedow saluted more casually. “It’s an easy enough target,” she said. “My scouts report that the enemy aren’t holding it in force, and I’d rather we didn’t give them time to think of poisoning it.”

  Gerta considered; she was tasked with taking the capital and a set surrounding area and holding until relieved. On the other hand, she had considerable latitude, resistance had been light, and just sitting on her behind waiting had never been her long suit.

  Speaking of which . . . “That a wound, Maxine?” she said, as the other Chosen officer sat in a gingerly fashion.

  “In a manner of speaking, Brigadier. You don’t like girls, do you?

  Gerta blinked; it was a rather odd question at this point. “No. About as entertaining as a gynecological exam, for me. Why?”

  “Well, in that case my warning is superfluous, but watch out for the ones here. They bite.”

  They shared a chuckle, and Gerta pulled out the appropriate map. “Through here?” she said, drawing a line with her finger to the irregular blue circle of the reservoir.

  “Ya. And a couple of companies around here. Can you spare me some armored cars?”

  “That’s no problem, we only lost two in action.”

  Maxine von Seedow ran a hand over the blond stubble that topped her long, rather boney face. “Good. We did lose more infantry than I anticipated.”

  “Stubborn beasts, locally.”

  Von Seedow rose, wincing slightly. “Tell me about it, Brigadier. In my opinion, we should exterminate them. I should have the reservoir by nightfall.”

  “Good. The last thing I want is an epidemic of dysentery. Or rather, the last thing you want is an epidemic of dysentery.”

  Maxine raised her pale eyebrows.

  “In their infinite wisdom, the General Staff are pulling me out. They’ve got another hole and need a cork.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “War! Extra, extra, read all about it—Republic at war with Chosen! Admiral Farr smashes Chosen fleet!”

  “Well, part of it,” Jeffrey Farr said, snatching a copy thrust into his hands and flipping a fifty-cent piece back.

  The car was moving slowly enough for that; the streets of Santander City were packed. Militiamen were rushing to their mobilization stations, air-raid wardens in their new armbands and helmets were standing on stepladders to tape over the streetlights, and everybody and his Aunt Sally were milling around talking to each other. Smith pulled the car over to the curb for ten minutes while a unit of Regulars—Premier’s Guard, but in field kit—headed towards the main railway station. The newspaper was full of screaming headlines three inches high, and so were the mobilization notices being
pasted up on every flat surface by members of the Women’s Auxiliary, who also wore armbands.

  The crowds cheered the soldiers as they marched. John nodded. “Hope they’re still as enthusiastic in a year,” he said grimly.

  “Hope we’re alive in a year,” Jeffrey replied, scanning the article. His lips shaped a soundless whistle. “Hot damn, but it looks like Dad completely cleaned their clocks. Eight cruisers, a battleship, and half their transports. Good way to start the war.”

  “Improves our chances,” John said. “I wonder if Center—”

  admiral farr’s actions indicate the limit of stochastic multivariate analysis, Center said. in your terms: a pleasant surprise, probability of favorable outcome to the struggle as a whole is increased by 7%, ±1.

  Jeffrey nodded. “Wonder what they’ll do now,” he mused. “What’d you do, in their boots?”

  “Stand pat,” John said at once. “Fortify the line of the Union-Santander border, concentrate on pacifying the occupied territories, and build ships and aircraft like crazy—taking Chosen personnel out of the armies to do it, if I had to. Absolutely no way we could fight our way through the mountains.”

  Good lad, Raj said. That would make their tactics serve their strategy.

  correct, Center replied, dispassionate as always. the strategy john hosten has outlined would give probability of chosen victory within a decade of over 75%; probability of long-term stalemate 10%; probability of santander victory 15%. in addition, in this scenario there is a distinct possibility of immediate and long-term setback to human civilization on visager, as the effort of prolonged total war and the development of weapons of mass destruction undermines the viability of both parties.

  “Fortunately, they’re not likely to do that,” Jeffrey said. “The Chosen always did tend to mistake operations for strategy,”

  probability of full-scale chosen attack on santander border is 85%, ±7, Center confirmed.

  “They’ll try to roll right over us,” John said. “The question is, can we hold them?”