Men of War

by William R. Forstchen

It was really nothing more than an oversize log structure, typical of ancient Rus, window shutters painted with gay designs, wildly fantastic ornamentation adorning the corners and steeply pitched tile roof. At Kal’s insistence the entire thing had been whitewashed, since after all that was the house a president lived in, a house painted white.

  He wondered if poor Kal was still alive in there. His old friend, his first real friend on this world, had changed so much in the last year. It was almost as if a dementia, an exhaustion, had broken him. He at times wondered if Kal had simply been too gentle, too filled with compassion to be a president. Every single death at the front told on him. Barely a day went by when he was not in the cathedral at noonday, attending yet another memorial service for the boy of a friend, an old drinking comrade, or simply because he felt that a president should be there when someone mourned a life given for the Republic.

  Andrew remembered how shocked he had been the last time he saw Lincoln, face deeply etched, eyes dark and sunken. When Lincoln noticed the empty sleeve, just a quick sidelong glance, then looked back into his eyes, he felt as if the president was filled with a fatherly desire and prayer that Andrew would be spared from any more agony in service to his country. That was Kal, even more so, and all the man wanted now was for the killing to stop.

  And there was the paradox of war, that there were times that in order to save lives the killing must go on.

  He reined in by the steps of the executive mansion. A cordon of troops ringed the last few steps into the building, the crowd nervously edging up on the lower level. Emil suddenly blocked his view, swinging his mount in front of Andrew'.

  “Doctor, just what the hell are you doing?” Andrew whispered.

  “Damn all, Andrew, there could be a sniper in any of those windows up there.”

  “I know that, Doctor; now kindly move. The last thing I want at this moment is to see you get hurt.”

  Emil reluctantly drew his mount around beside Andrew, but he continued to look up at the building, squinting.

  Andrew was motionless, and the seconds dragged out.

  “Andrew?”

  “Yes?”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “Just waiting,” Andrew snapped, his tone making it clear that he didn’t want to talk.

  The crowd was pressing around him, an old woman tugged at his leg, he looked down, she spoke too rapidly in Rus for him to understand, her voice drowned out by the rising clamor of the anxious crowd.

  Finally, a captain came out the front door, leaving it open, stepped through the cordon of guards, walked down the steps, smartly snapped to attention, and saluted. Andrew recognized him as the officer in charge of Kal’s personal guard.

  “Colonel, sir?”

  “Good morning. Captain.”

  The soldier looked up at him, obviously a bit confused. “Captain, President Kalenka, how is he?”

  “Sir, he is still alive. I have placed a double detachment of guards at his door, two officers in his room armed as well.”

  “And they’re good men?”

  “Sir, I picked them,” the captain announced, hurt by the implication.

  Andrew stared at the young officer, gauging him, then nodded.

  “And his condition?”

  The captain drew closer, coming up to Andrew’s side, the crowd drawing back slightly.

  “Not good I’m afraid, sir; the fever’s coming back, his wife says.”

  “Damn all,” Emil mumbled.

  Andrew nodded, lifted his gaze, staring again at the building.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, is there anything else?”

  “Has Bugarin been sworn in as acting president?”

  “Yes sir. Sir, I was ordered by one of his people to remove the guard from President Kalenka and place them around the room Bugarin is in.”

  “And you refused?”

  “Yes sir, I most certainly did.”

  “As colonel in command of the army, I am giving you a personal order, Captain. You are to guard Kalenka with your life.”

  “I would do it anyhow, sir.”

  “No matter what orders you receive afterward my order to you right now comes first. President Kalenka is to be protected at all cost.”

  “I will die before anyone harms him, sir,” the young captain replied fiercely.

  “Good, son. Now please go inside and announce to Mr. Bugarin and Metropolitan Casmir that I request to see them, out here.”

  This order he announced with raised voice, the command echoing out over the crowd. The square grew hushed.

  The captain saluted, hurried inside, and long minutes passed. Finally he returned, alone.

  “Colonel Keane, Mr.,” and he hesitated for a second, “Acting President Bugarin says that you are to report to him inside.”

  Andrew stiffened.

  “As commander of the army I request a public meeting, here in front of the citizens of Suzdal, and tell him I will wait here all damn day if necessary.”

  The captain scurried back, and Andrew pitied him, caught between two fires.

  “Andrew, are you going to do what I think you’re doing?”

  Andrew looked over at Emil and smiled.

  The bell in the church tower tolled, marking the passage of time, and finally someone appeared in the door. It was Metropolitan Casmir. He turned, looking back into the White House, obviously shouting something that was unintelligible, then turned and strode down the steps, black robes billowing. He stopped several steps above Andrew, raised his staff, and looked out at the crowd, then made the sign of blessing. Instantly there was silence, everyone going to their knees, blessing themselves. Remaining mounted, Andrew was at eye level with him.

  “Has Bugarin been sworn in as acting president?” Andrew asked.

  “Yes, Andrew.” His voice was low, barely a whisper. “It was your own Constitution that forced me to do it. Kal, I’m not sure if he will survive. Marcus is dead, Flavius is dead. Bugarin is next in line. The Constitution requires it; I had to bless the ceremony.”

  Andrew knew instantly from his tone that Casmir loathed what he had to do.

  “Since you are the chief justice, I request that you initiate an investigation into the attempted assassination of the president and the assassination of the Speaker. I doubt seriously if the executive branch will do so. I doubt as well if you could muster the votes in the Senate to remove Bugarin.”

  “I will do everything I can, both as a justice and as a priest.”

  There was a stir in the crowd. Casmir looked back over his shoulder. Half a dozen guards were in the doorway.

  “I told Bugarin I would denounce him as a coward if he didn’t come out to meet you,” Casmir whispered.

  Andrew could not help but chuckle.

  “Are you going to overthrow him?” Casmir asked, and Andrew sensed the conflict in his friend’s voice.

  He said nothing, watching intently as Bugarin appeared in the doorway, strangely wearing the stovepipe hat of Kal, which to this world had become the ceremonial symbol of the president. The guards, all of them older senators, came down the steps, Bugarin in the middle of the group.

  They stopped behind Casmir.

  Andrew stared at him intently. There was a defiance, but he could sense the fear as well. Was this the man who could engineer not just the assassination of the Speaker but the attempt on the president as well? Did he believe so passionately that the war must end that he would kill, or was he just a pawn as well?

  Regardless of what Andrew suspected about how Bugarin had come to power, he was at least for this moment the president of the Republic.

  With deliberate slowness Andrew raised his hand and saluted. A hushed whisper ran through the crowd. It was an acknowledgment, they all knew that. He could sense the tension easing out of Bugarin, but there was still a wariness. He heard a mumbled curse; it was Emil who remained defiant, unable to
bring himself to salute.

  “I wish to see President Kalenka now,” Emil announced, addressing his statement to Casmir and emphasizing the word president.

  “I’ll see to it, Emil,” the prelate replied, “and you are under my personal protection.”

  Emil looked over at Andrew.

  “Just a second,” Andrew whispered.

  “For what? To see you kiss his bloody boot?”

  Andrew ignored his friend’s defiance.

  “May I inquire of the acting president if there are any orders for the army in regards to operations both offensive and defensive.”

  He said the words slowly, deliberately, so that all could hear.

  “All offensive operations are to cease. I am asking for a cease-fire immediately. We will end this senseless war.”

  Again the ripple of voices erupted in the square. This was the moment. The crowd was confused. There was a ripple of cheers, but it lacked depth and enthusiasm. He could hear the rustling of arms back across the square, a muffled order, most likely Webster telling the men there to get ready.

  “Sir, if you are ordering me to have the army stand down, I cannot obey that order.”

  There was an expectant hush.

  Andrew slowly reached down to his side, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. One of the senators started to raise a pistol, cocking it. Casmir turned to face the senators, shouting for them to remain still.

  Andrew carefully drew out his sword, a ceremonial blade given to him by Kal and the Congress in recognition of their victory over the Tugars. He made it a point of now saluting with the blade, hilt drawn up before his face, blade vertical, but as he did so he looked up toward the flag gently fluttering atop the White House.

  He took a deep breath, steadying himself for what would come next.

  Quickly he inverted the blade in his grasp, fumbling slightly with his one hand since he was nervous.

  With hilt pointed toward Bugarin he tossed the sword onto the steps so that it clattered by Casmir’s feet.

  “I hereby resign my commission with the Army of the Republic,” he cried, voice carrying to the farthest corners of the plaza. “I retire to private life and shall leave this city and the Republic.”

  The crowd fell as silent as the grave. Bugarin looked at him startled, unable to react.

  Andrew took a deep breath; to his surprise, he felt as if a horrible burden had been lifted.

  He half turned his horse away from Bugarin. In his mind the man simply no longer existed.

  Andrew looked at the crowd, the upturned faces.

  “I gave ten years to this country,” he shouted, his voice echoing. “We came to this world, more than five hundred of us. Over four hundred of them are dead, dying to give you freedom. In those ten years of service and sacrifice, I have learned something.”

  He waited a moment, the crowd in the square as silent as the tomb.

  “You cannot give freedom to anyone. Each man, each woman must earn it themselves, and then guard it from others who would take it away. Guard it from the hordes, guard it from those who would bow again to the hordes.” As he said the last words, he nodded toward the White House.

  He looked straight back at Bugarin.

  “I am now a private citizen and as a private citizen I say this to you. I expect the health of our beloved President Kalenka to be guarded at all cost. If he should die, for whatever reason, you will have to answer to me personally.”

  Bugarin blanched at the direct threat but said nothing. With a deliberate show of contempt, Andrew turned his back without waiting for a reply and again faced the crowd.

  “To those who were my friends, who fought for freedom, I thank you. As for the rest.” He hesitated remembering Davy Crockett’s famous farewell statement. “Well, I pity you, for if you surrender, you will surely die. Farewell.”

  With head held high he started to ride back toward his home and felt a lightness within he had not known in years. He had done his duty, he had wrestled with the desire to take it all, an act he knew he could have done. He had not stained himself, and he had not destroyed the Republic. If the Republic was doomed to die, it would be other hands that destroyed his dream and not his own. By doing nothing more at this moment he felt that he had performed one of the most important duties of his career.

  As he passed the spell around him broke, voices erupting, some shouting for him to stay, others calling to fight, others shouting that the war was over. Gates, riding by his side, looked at him, gape-mouthed.

  “What about the war?” Gates finally asked.

  Andrew smiled.

  “They have three days down in Tyre before word can ever get to them. It’s beyond my control now.”

  “God protect Hans and Vincent.” Gates sighed.

  “Yes,” Andrew replied, lowering his head. “God protect us all.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “North; I’ll leave the city tomorrow.”

  Chapter Nine

  Hans had told him he would enjoy it, and he was right. He had never liked horses all that much. An officer was expected to ride, and so he did, but trying to keep a comfortable seat aboard a monster the size of a Clydesdale was impossible, especially after the wound to his hip.

  Riding an ironclad was different. It bounced the guts out of him as they rumbled up and down over the vast undulating plains, but at the moment he didn’t care … he was back in action, and that’s what counted.

  Cresting a low bluff the driver down below halted their machine. To Vincent’s left, sprawled on the ground, were half a dozen Bantag, torn apart by Gatling fire, their mounts dead as well. The Hornet that had done the job came sweeping back from the east, wagging its wings as it passed overhead, most likely returning back to base, its ammunition spent.

  Moving stiffly, Vincent turned, holding the side of the turret, letting his legs dangle over the side of the machine, and he dropped clumsily to the ground. It was good to be out of the machine. The open hatch atop the turret tended to act as a chimney, drawing heat up from the main deck below, where the boiler was. The dry sage crackled beneath his feet, the pungent smell clearing away the stench of hot oil and kerosene.

  He raised his field glasses. Far ahead, several miles away, he could see them, six umens identified so far, sixty thousand mounted warriors of the Horde … and all of them confused as hell.

  The breakout had started at dawn. A rocket barrage of five hundred rounds had preceded the attack, and then fifty-two ironclads led the way. They’d lost six in that opening assault, but within minutes their firepower, combined with the support of twenty Hornets, had torn a gaping hole in the Bantag lines a mile wide, the enemy fleeing in disorganized panic.

  Following them had come the entire 3rd Corps, moving by regiments in a huge block formation, the same system Hans had used the year before during the withdrawal from the Green Mountains. But this time they had additional artillery with them, wagons for supplies, in addition to the Gatlings aboard the ironclads and in the air.

  It was a different kind of warfare for a different age, Vincent realized. Varinna had grasped that, and it was beginning to crystallize in his own mind. This was more like ships maneuvering at sea than the old style of battles on land. Keep the ironclads together except for a dozen scattered around the square of 3rd Corps to provide fire support and to act as rally points.

  An ironclad ground up the slope beside him and came to a stop, steam hissing from the safety valve, the top door open, a head sticking out.

  “Bastards don’t know what to do!” Timokin grinned, sitting up in the turret of his machine and wiping his face with a sweat-stained rag. He climbed out and dropped to the ground next to Vincent. Other machines were climbing the slope behind them, moving in a giant V formation a half mile wide. It was a grand sight, smoke billowing, cleated wheels cutting into the dry turf, gun ports open, three-inch rifles and Gatlings protruding and ready for action.

  Behind them all of 3rd Corps was marching in open bl
ock formation. Just inside the giant square six batteries moved at an easy pace, ready to swing out and deploy if needed, while in the center of the vast square were the wagons loaded down with extra fuel, ammunition, and medical supplies. The lone regiment of mounted troopers weaved back and forth outside the square along the flanks and rear, troopers occasionally reining in to trade a couple of shots with Bantag riders who ventured too close to the formation. Overhead four Hornets circled lazily, ready to swoop down if the Bantag should try to venture a charge.

  He could sense the exhilaration in the ranks. Third Corps had stayed in Tyre throughout the winter, avoiding the gutting of the army at Roum and the disaster at Capua. If anything, the men had felt abandoned, forgotten on a secondary front, and after nine months in the siege lines were glorying in a chance to prove something.

  Gregory offered Vincent his canteen, and he gladly took it. He had drained his own canteen hours ago and pride had kept him from asking for more water from his crew below, who were suffering in far worse heat. Too many months behind a desk he realized.

  The water was hot, but he didn’t care, rinsing the oily taste out of his mouth and then taking a long gulp.

  “This is a damn sight better than Capua,” Gregory said, wincing slightly when Vincent tossed the canteen back. “Type of country these machines were made for. not the tangle of trenches and traps up north.”

  Vincent nodded in agreement.

  He continued to scan the enemy. Plumes of dust were rising from the west several miles behind the column. They are most likely detaching more troops away from Tyre to follow, he thought. Maybe even abandoning the siege completely except for a small covering force, figure to pin us out here with everything they have and wipe us out.

  In spite of Gregory’s enthusiasm and the fact that he had planned this operation himself, Vincent did feel a shiver of nervousness. It was one thing to calculate all this out on paper and maps; it was another thing to be out here now. Hans had been right, it was different down here. North, in Roum, the land was settled: There were roads, villas, towns, the typical orderliness of the Roum, everything squared off and proper. This was vast unsettled land, undulating prairie as far as the eye could see, like what he imagined Kansas or the Nebraska Territory to be. A place for the ironclads, but not for a column of infantry on foot.