Down to the Sea

by William R. Forstchen

  “Ready?”

  “In another minute.”

  “Shoot when you can bring it to bear. Try to hit the bastard toward the stem, get its engines and steering. Can you do that?”

  “Well try, sir.”

  “Good luck.”

  There was no reply.

  An enemy frigate cut directly in front of them, all guns firing. Tracers walked up the deck, and a round shrieked through the view slit, pinging around inside the cupola like an angry bee. Everyone ducked and cursed until it fell spent on the deck floor.

  Something exploded against the side of the cupola. A heavy fragment broke off on the inside, slicing across the narrow space, smashing the wheel to splinters.

  Several seconds later the forward gun fired, startling him. He looked forward, and then howled with delight as a blossom of fire ignited just above the waterline of the enemy ship, astern of its rear turret. The force of the fourteen-inch shell visibly shook the behemoth, and a secondary explosion followed several seconds later, peeling back part of the deck.

  The triumph, however, was short-lived, for his wounded foe now returned fire. Its four heavy guns fired in sequence. The first two shells missed but the third one landed a devastating blow.

  For a moment he wondered if he were dead. The sensation reminded him of when he was hit at the Battle of St. Gregory’s, when an explosion destroyed one eye and left him temporarily blinded in the other. The world was black. He felt a building panic.

  Then he saw fire, a wall of it billowing up just outside the cupola. He started to crawl toward the hatch and caught a glimpse of Nagama, lying on the deck, clutching his shoulder, arm gone, blown clean off.

  He went back, grabbed him, and pulled him toward the hatch.

  The deck started to tilt, slowly but noticeably to port, helping them along.

  They slid out through the hatch and he looked forward. The bow was gone, as was the forward turret. Men were scrambling up from below, many of them wounded. A number of them had reddened faces and hands. The outer skin had been boiled off from the flesh underneath by a blast of pressurized steam.

  There was no need for him to order abandon ship. Everyone knew it. Everyone was scrambling for their hves.

  Someone grabbed Nagama from him, dragging him down the steps to the main deck, pushing the captain over the side.

  Bullfinch looked around. It was hard to make sense of what was happening. Burning ships dotted the sea. It was impossible to figure which were his, and which had been kills. His men had been magnificent, and he felt a swelling of pride. Green boys really, precious few of the veterans of the old days, but they had fought like demons to the end.

  And yet he knew that their effort had been in vain. Only one of the great enemy ships was burning. The armada would roll over them and keep on going. He had played the gambit and lost.

  He saw the turrets of one of the battleships turning, barrels laying flat across its deck, aiming straight at his flagship.

  He barely felt the explosion that swept him and what was left of the Antietam into the embrace of the sea.

  The funeral pyres of dying ships dotted the night.

  Emperor Yasim sat alone in his stateroom, stunned by the violence. He had survived half a dozen major engagements, but never had death whispered so close. At one point a shell fragment had punched through a viewing slit, decapitating the bodyguard standing next to him.

  The thought of the blood spraying on his face caused him to go over to the silver basin and wash yet again.

  Through an open porthole above the basin he saw a flare going up and detonating. Seconds later tracers lashed the water. One of his frigates was hunting down survivors in the water.

  The eastern horizon was growing light, and the storm was beginning to break, though the wind still held and the seas continued to run. Occasional glimpses of the misty horizon revealed a dim red glow.

  He returned to his bed and lay down, placing a cooling cloth over his forehead. He prayed that his stomach would settle, that the seas would settle, that he could somehow sleep. A spasm of nausea hit, and he sat up in anticipation, but then it passed.

  Why am I here? he suddenly wondered. This could have waited. The humans were no real threat as of yet. Why did Hazin want this?

  The ferocity of the human attack had been startling. They had charged straight in regardless of loss. Thanks to the vigilance of a lead frigate, which had hurried back with the report of their approach, they had been prepared. Plus, with his uncanny sixth sense, Hazin had made the suggestion to change formation before the frigate had even reported in. If not for them, the enemy ships would have struck straight into the van of his fleet when it was spread out across half a dozen leagues.

  Instead, the lead of the van had slowed, the rearmost ships had come up, and together they had cautiously advanced through the storm, striking hard. But even then, two cruisers were sunk along with three frigates. Most amazingly of all one of the battleships was out of action. Come dawn, two cruisers would begin the arduous task of towing it across the vast distances back to Kazan.

  A knock at the door stirred him. He was tempted to ignore it, but he knew who it was.

  He stood up, looking down at his uniform. His guards had immediately washed and changed him after the incident on the bridge, but after the long night of sickness, he wasn’t sure if he had stained himself.

  Satisfied that he looked presentable, he acknowledged the knock and the door opened. It was, of course, Hazin, excited about the battle. “Sire, let me congratulate you on this victory.”

  “Victory? I never expected this fight.”

  “Nevertheless, it served its purpose well. Rather than have to dig them out, or worse, having them slip away and our spending months searching, they came straight to us to be slaughtered.”

  “We lost two cruisers, and the Kavana is out of action. If we had been fighting a fleet of the banner, I would expect that. But against these humans? And it is so far from home. If a cyclone strikes, the Kavana will go under.”

  “Sire, we know that they had eight ships that they designated as cruisers. Seven of the eight are confirmed as sunk along with eight or more of their smaller ships. That, sire, is nearly their entire fleet. They are defenseless now. Admiral Ullani informs me as well that the storm is abating.” Yasim said nothing, but silently thanked the gods. At least, around Kazan, if a storm threatened a leeward bay or shelter could be found. The vastness of this ocean was too troubling and too fraught with peril.

  “Be evening we will be off their coast. In two days’ time a harbor will be secured for the fleet while the transports can proceed to the Bantag coast.”

  “Something tells me this will not go according to the plan.”

  “War never does. There will be some flyers attacking today, that must be expected. We might take some small damage.”

  “As much as last evening?”

  “I do not know, Your Highness, but I doubt it. If the flyers were effective, they would have waited, held their fleet back and sent them all in at once. The fact that they did not indicates to me that the power of the flyers is negligible, and their admiral decided to risk all on an evening attack in the storm. Actually, an admirable move.”

  “Yes, admirable and costly.”

  “More so to them. It is all but finished now.”

  “You truly believe so, don’t you.”

  Hazin looked straight at him and smiled. “With certainty.”

  Another swell rocked the ship, and Yasim turned, retreating to his bed, and lay down. The ship rocked again, and Yasim fumbled for the gold basin by the side of his bed and vomited weakly. Letting the basin drop, he laid back gasping.

  Hazin went over to a side table, poured a cup of weak tea into a mug to use as a decanter, damped a towel with water, and went to the emperor’s bedside, helping him to wipe his face. The emperor sipped down the tea, then laid back.

  Hazin started to withdraw, then stopped. “Sire, a suggestion.”

  �
�And that is?”

  “Let me transfer to another ship.”

  “Which ship? One that is infiltrated by your people?”

  “Then one of the smaller ships if you suspect such. You pick it, a cruiser.”

  “Your reason?”

  “The main battle has been fought and won. The transports bearing the assault troops are still a day behind us even with our delay here. I suspect your decision will be to send the main force into Constantine as planned, and let the secondary force and supplies continue on to the Bantag coast. A ship should be left here to convey that information upon their arrival.”

  “Any courier can do that. Why the Grand Master?”

  “You suspect duplicity, don’t you, sire?”

  “With you, Hazin, it is the very air you breathe.”

  “Sire, that shell that struck the bridge. It killed the man standing between you and me. Suppose it had killed both of us.”

  “Then we would no longer be together, Hazin,” Yasim said dryly.

  “You have an unborn child. How long would its mother live if word should return of your death?”

  Yasim looked at him in surprise. “How did you know that? It was supposed to be a secret.”

  “Secrets? From me?”

  “Perhaps it is I who should then wait for the transports to arrive, thus sparing you such worries.”

  “Sire, we both know that is impossible. The emperors of the Kazan have always led their armies into battle.”

  Yasim did not respond, for another swell had rocked the ship and, grabbing up a gold basin, he shuddered, swallowed hard, then put the basin down, looking up weakly.

  “Let me speak practically to you, to reveal the duplicity if I must,” said Hazin.

  “Go on.”

  “If you die, how long would I last? As you have had dozens of rivals, so have I within the Order. Even as we are here, they are undoubtedly plotting back home with the families of your cousins who still survive, who are out here with you even now, but who will turn on one another if you are dead. I will be one of the first to fall when you are gone.”

  “So stay with me. Then if you have some premonition, you can end it swiftly.”

  “Sire, I can ensure the survival of your child, your own blood. That is my guarantee if something should happen, and that is the duplicity behind the practical suggestion.”

  “So noble of you, Hazin.”

  “Nobility has nothing to do with it. But there is another layer within the game, sire. Let the victory be yours tomorrow. If I am aboard, there will be more than one who will whisper that it was I, Hazin, who made the decisions and but handed them to you to carry out.”

  Yasim bristled.

  “It is what some will say, sire, and we both know that. By transferring me, it could be even seen as your breaking away from me, leaving me behind to ensure your own place and glory and that I have fallen somewhat from favor.”

  “Why so concerned for me and my glory?”

  Hazin smiled. “Practicality, survival, advancement. The warriors of the Shiv will win glory enough later.”

  Yasim laid back and closed his eyes. “Take the Zhiva. I can spare one more cruiser.”

  “A wise decision, sire. My staff and I will transfer at dawn.”

  Hazin withdrew so quietly that Yasim wasn’t even sure if he had left until he opened his eyes to check.

  There had to be a scheme within a scheme here, he realized. Though all the things Hazin had cited were true, there had to be another factor. But he was too weary to think about it now, and in spite of his sickness, he soon drifted off to sleep, not aware of the fact that the warm tea Hazin had handed him was laced with a mild drug to make him compliant.

  EIGHTEEN

  Dawn came slowly, with low scudding clouds racing in from the sea, bringing moments of driving rain that passed quickly to show brief glimpses of clear pale blue sky overhead.

  Standing by the number three dock of the naval yard, Cromwell waited anxiously with the knot of officers. Beyond the gate blocking access to the pier, he could see hundreds gathered; enlisted personnel, naval yard workers, and wives, hundreds of frightened wives, their murmuring voices carrying with the wind.

  It was obvious the frigate had been in a fight. Its foremast was gone, the aft turret was nothing but scorched ruins, and the ship was listing heavily at the stern, black coiling smoke curled up from several breaks in the deck.

  A harbor tug eased it into the dock, lines snaking out from the shore. Sailors on board, more than one of them striped to the waist, their bodies blackened from smoke, grabbed the lines, securing them. The gangplank was barely down when a dozen officers raced aboard, the rest of the crowd held back by a line of sailors with rifles.

  In less than a minute, one of the officers was coming back down the gangplank. Ignoring shouted pleas for information, he mounted up and rode to the gate, a detail of sailors falling in around him so that he could get through the mob waiting outside the navy yard.

  If he wouldn’t talk, the sailors lining the deck of the shattered frigate most certainly would. Within moments Cromwell heard the comments racing through the crowd on the dock…“fleet sunk…Bullfinch dead…everything gone…the Kazan are coming!”

  The word seemed to leap like a lightning bolt to the mob beyond the gate. A wild hysterical cry erupted, a commingling of screams, prayers, curses, and weeping.

  Hundreds tried to surge in as the gate slipped open to let the mounted officer pass, others turned and started running back to the city.

  A flurry of shots startled Cromwell. The officer, pistol raised over his head, emptied his revolver, and the crowd quieted.

  “All military personnel report to your stations,” he shouted in Greek. “All dockyard personnel report to work. The rest of you civilians go to your homes and prepare to evacuate the city.”

  Cromwell shook his head at the last statement. The city would be in utter chaos within the hour.

  He looked over at General Petracci who stood silent, leaning heavily on his cane. Jack had come in the evening before, transferring his headquarters to where most of his airfleet was now stationed.

  Jack was ignoring the madness erupting around them, looking up at the sky.

  “Lousy day for flying. Wind will be up. We better start getting ready.”

  “Ship in sight!”

  Adam, who had been handing a wrench up to his crew chief, heard the cry as it raced along the main deck. All work stopped, and he felt a momentary panic. If it was an enemy ship they were dead; every aerosteamer had been secured below during the storm, the first of the Falcons was just starting to go up the ramp to the flight deck.

  He left his chief and went through the wooden door to the base of the bridge at a run, then scrambled up the ladder to the tower. It was a violation of etiquette to enter the admiral’s realm without being ordered, but if the fight was erupting he had to know.

  The admiral ignored his presence, looking forward, glasses raised. Adam respectfully stood behind him, finally spotting the smudge of smoke and then the glint of reflected sunlight.

  “One of ours,” Petronius announced, “and she looks like she’s been in a fight.”

  The early morning light struck the cresting waves, and if they were not in such danger, Adam realized, it would have been a beautiful sight. With the passing of the storm front the air was freshening, shifting around to the west northwest, bringing with it a drop in humidity as the wind came sweeping down out of the mountains with a touch of coolness to it.

  The storm-green sea, which had been driven inward by the southerly winds of the day before, was now a mad confusion of whitecaps and short, sharp waves, which hissed and rolled.

  The minutes dragged out, Adam finally borrowing a pair of glasses from the first officer. Adjusting the focus, he finally caught sight of the ship. It was a cruiser, and Petronius was right, it had obviously been in a fight. Smoke from its stacks was swirling out, but there was smoke from several fires as well, white plume
s of steam, and part of a mast leaning over drunkenly.

  He caught a flicker of light winking on and off.

  “She’s signaling,” Petronius announced.

  The ship’s signals officer was out the door to the open bridge, glasses up, with Petronius following. Adam cautiously stepped into line behind the admiral.

  The signals officer turned to the enlisted man working the shutter lamp.

  “Send reply. ‘Shiloh. Wilderness and Perryville following astern. Malvern Hill, please report situation.”

  Adam listened to the clatter of the lantern shutter, trying to follow the Morse code, the sailor signaling so fast it was hard to keep up.

  The signaling done, Adam started to raise his glasses to watch the reply, but the first officer reclaimed his property. Stepping back, he listened as the signals officer started to read the response from the cruiser Malvern Hill.

  “Believe all cruisers of fleet destroyed,” and a gasp swept through the bridge. “Action last night five miles south of Three Sisters, Minoan Shoals. Four enemy battleships and numerous other ships engaged. One battleship believed sunk. Three of our frigates following astern. End message.”

  Petronius, face pale, turned and looked around at his staff, shaking his head.

  “Ask him about Bullfinch.”

  Again the clattering and a quick reply.

  “Believe dead. Antietam sunk.”

  “Position of enemy fleet,” Petronius asked, making no comment on the reported death of his old friend.

  “Last sighted steaming west, five miles south of Minoan Shoals. Believe they will attack Constantine by late afternoon. Am ordering remains of fleet to withdraw up Mississippi. Your orders?”

  Petronius walked back into the shelter of the enclosed bridge and sat down in his chair. A gesture to a midshipman resulted in a steaming mug of tea, which Petronius slipped in silence for several minutes.

  He finally looked up at the officers gathered round.

  “Fight or withdraw.”

  There was silence, finally the first officer spoke up.

  “Malvern Hill is shot to pieces, we can see that. Admiral Bullfinch is gone. If we put our backs against Constantine we’ll be pinned and shot to pieces as well, sir. Captain Ustasha over in Malvern Hill is right, let’s come about. The Mississippi is only two hours behind us. Pull back up the river.”